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THE 

SINNER’S COMEDY 


THE “ UNKNOWN ' 1 LIBRARY 


THE 


“UNKNOWN” LIBRARY. 

1. MLLE. IXE. By Lanoe 

Falconer. 

2. STORY OF ELEANOR 

LAMBERT. By Magda- 
len Brooke. 

3. MYSTERY OF THE 

CAMPAGNA. By Von 

Degen. 

4. THE FRIEND OF 

DEATH. Adapted by 
Mary J. Serrano. 

5. PHILIPPA ; or, Under a 

Cloud. By Ella. 

6. THE HOTEL D’AN- 

GLETERRE, and Other 
Stories. By Lanoe Fal- 
coner. 

7. AMARYLLIS. By 

rES2Pri02 AP02INH2. 

8. SOME EMOTIONS AND 

A MORAL. By John 
Oliver Hobbes. 

9. EUROPEAN RELA- 

TIONS. By Talmage 
Dalin. 

10. JOHN SHERMAN, and 

DHOYA. ByGANCONAGH. 

11. THROUGH THE RED- 

LITTEN WINDOWS, 
and THE OLD RIVER 
HOUSE. By Theodor 
Hertz-Garten. 

12. BACK FROM THE 

DEAD. By Saqui Smith. 

13. IN TENT AND BUNG- 

ALOW. By An Idle 
Exile. 

14. THE SINNER’S COM- 

EDY. By John Oliver 
Hobbes. 


THE “ UNKNOWN ” LIBRARY \/ 


THE 

SINNER’S COMEDY 


BY 

JOHN OLIVER HOBBES C ^ 

^4 uthor of “ Some Emotions and a Moral." 

{ 


/ 

v 


r.m 13 rm 


)iflb% X 


NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 



l/ 

Copyright, 1892, by 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 




\ 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


ALFRED GOODWIN 


C Late Professor of Greek and Latin at University 
College , London , and formerly Fellow 
of Balliol College , Oxford ), 

WHO DIED ON 

7th February, 1892. 


“ He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one ; 

Exceeding wise. . . . 

Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not ; 

But to those men that sought him, sweet as 
summer.” 

“ Whatsoever he said, all men beleeved him 
that as he spake, so he thought, and whatsoever 
he did, that he did it with good intent. His 
manner was, never to wonder at anything ; 
never to be in haste, and yet never slow ; nor to 
be perplexed, or dejected, or at any time un- 
seemely to laugh ; nor to be angry, or suspicious, 
but ever ready to doe good, and to forgive, and to 
speake truth ; and all this, as one that seemed 
rather of himselfe to have been straight and right, 
than ever to have been rectified or redressed.” 




„ '• . 























































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THE SINNER’S 
COMEDY. 


i. 

HEN the ninth Lord 
Middlehurst lay on his 
deathbed, he called each 
of his three children to 
him in turn. The heir he bade 
do his duty, and remember that 
Feudalism under a just lord was 
the only -Ism for a loyal subject 
and a patriot. 

The second son he implored to 
give up smoking. 



2 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


The third child, who was his 
favorite and a girl, he looked at in 
silence for a long time. When 
he spoke, it was in a whisper too 
low to be heard by the others, 
who lingered in the room at a dis- 
tance from the bedside. 

“Emily,” he said, “all things in 
life are vanity — save one. That 
is Love. Find it. It is the 
philosopher’s stone.” 

He did not speak again till just 
before he died, when he kissed his 
wife’s hand with singular tender- 
ness and called her “Elizabeth.” 
She had been christened Augus- 
ta Frederica; but then, as the 
doctors explained, dying men 
often make these mistakes. 

The effect produced on each of 
the three by the good nobleman’s 
last injunctions was curious and 
significant. 

The heir, who would have been 

v. 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


3 


very strong-minded had he been 
born a woman, had a soul above 
the management of a country es- 
tate. Although all his passions 
were extremely well-bred and gen- 
tlemanly, and had never given 
him one moment’s anxiety from 
the hour of his birth, there was 
one — no less gentlemanly, how- 
ever, than the others — which ruled 
him with something approaching 
despotism. This was Ambition. 
He longed to make a mark, or, 
to express it more vulgarly, cut a 
figure. Now, fortunately or un- 
fortunately, the number of figures 
which can be cut in the world is 
practically unlimited ; the only 
difficulty is to cut precisely the 
kind of figure one would wish. 
But that merely illustrates the 
playfulness of the gods. The 
kind of figure Lord Middlehurst 
liked to imagine himself cutting 


4 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


was dignified, important, and 
frock-coated. That is to say, he 
was to be the man on all occasions, 
to wear the Frock-coat and repre- 
sent in one gracious person the 
literal and symbolic in Frock- 



coats throughout cultivated Eu- 
rope. 


" — ' He scraped together all his 
available capital, raised his rents, 
and started a daily paper. 

The Honorable Robert Havi- 
land, who was the second son, was 
noted for his serenity. When his 
brother was oppressed with gloom 
to think how few people he knew 
who were sufficiently moral to 
dine with, Robert reminded him 
that the most interesting sinners 
usually preferred a supper. His 
cheerfulness was undiminishable. 
He shaved regularly for the week 
following Lord Middlehurst’s 
death, gave his lounging-coat to 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


5 


an under-groom, and began read- 
ing religious novels — in bed — as a 
first step toward reform. At the 
end of the tenth day he hinted 
to the coachman that a rat-hunt 
might be amusing. Before a fort- 
night had passed, he was limiting 
himself to four pipes a day — with 
fluctuating success. “A fellow 
can’t break off a habit all at once,” 
he said ; “it would play the very 
devil with his nerves, to begin 
with !” 

Emily, who was eighteen at the 
time of her father’s death, mar- 
ried in the following year, at her 
mother’s suggestion, a Mr. Frany 
cis Adolphus Prentice^ of the firm 
of Prentice, Rawncliffe, Prentice 
& Company, bankers, a gentle- 
man of middle age, for whom she 
cherished the highest respect and 
esteem. She had met him at six 
dinners, two tennis parties, and a 


6 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


court ball. To a young girl mar- 
riage only means a trousseau and 
a honeymoon ; the trousseau she 
can describe to a flounce ; she im- 
agines the honeymoon as a flirta- 
tion under the blessing of the 
Church. Emily, not unmindful 
of her future husband's brief but 
destroying small talk, waived the 
idea of flirtation, and concen- 
trated her thoughts on the trous- 
seau. Just six months after the 
wedding, the unfortunate gentle- 
man died of an illness which be- 
gan with a carbuncle and ended 
in complications. Emily was 
shocked at his death, and grieved 
because she could not grieve. He 
had been so very kind and so very 
stupid. She went in mournful 
weeds, and ordered orchids to be 
placed on his grave twice a week. 
Her mother suggested, “At all 
events, for the present 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


7 


In stature Mrs. Prentice was 
rather above the average height. 
Her symmetry was modern ; she 
was the Venus of the Luxem- 
bourg, not the goddess of Milo. 
Her hair, which was fine and 
abundant, was of that very light 
brown which usually accompanies 
a sallow skin. Emily’s complex- 
ion was like porcelain, pink and 
transparent. Her eyes were blue ; 
they had the fire and brilliancy 
without the coldness of steel. 
Her nose and mouth were deli- 
cately formed; she had a little 
square chin, with a cleft which 
looked like a dimple. All her 
features suggested decision and 
force ; that the decision would be 
shown at the right moment, that 
the force would be well-directed, 
was less certain. “A fine devil 
spoilt in a saint,” said one man of 
her. His wife was her dearest 


8 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


friend — so he had a right to his 
opinion. 

But in the county it was whis- 
pered that Mrs. Prentice was a 
flirt; no harm in her, of course 
(the “of course” always), yet still 
— a flirt. A certain estate, some 
eight miles away from Hurst 
Place (where the lady lived for 
three months of the year with her 
mother), belonged to a certain 
baronet, Sir Richard Kilcoursie 
by name ; said Baronet, a bach- 
elor. Would it be human to sup- 
pose that the fair Emily’s eyes 
had not rolled Kilcoursie-ward ; 
that, remembering their color and 
man’s weakness, they had rolled 
vainly? The county — with mar- 
riageable daughters — hoped for 
the best in the case of the Hon- 
orable Mrs. Prentice, 

Sir Richard Kilcoursie, of St. 
Simon’s Close, in the county of 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


9 


Hertfordshire, started in life as 
the younger son of a younger son. 
Before he was out of his short 
clothes, his family decided that 
he should enter the Civil Service. 
“Then,” said they, “if he only 
lives to be sixty-three he will 
have a pension !” 

When Richard arrived at years 
of discretion, he saw no reason 
for quarreling with their plan. 
Every day of his life brought him 
nearer the pension, and every day 
he had the pleasure of spending it 
in advance. When Fate made 
him a baronet, and dropped the 
hoard of two respectable bach- 
elors into his pocket, he had 
something like ruin staring him in 
the face. He never forgot the 
vision. It sobered his philos- 
ophy. He began to take an 
interest in the workings of Provi- 
dence. For the rest, he ' was a 


IO 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


man who found no fault with the 
facts of life so long as they were 
expressed in picturesque meta- 
phor. The agreeable system of 
ethics condensed in the axiom 
that all vices are but exaggerated 
virtues, seemed to him to breathe 
a more benevolent spirit than the 
“ Imitatio Christi .” He believed 
that Man was the measure of all 
things ; that Man was Sir Richard 
Kilcoursie. His views on Wom- 
an were, perhaps, more remark- 
able for their chivalry than their 
reverence; that she lost her 
youth was a blot on creation; 
that she could lose her virtue 
made life worth living. As his 
nature was sensuous rather than 
sensual, however, the refinement 
of his taste did for him what the 
fear of God has hardly done for 
few. He waited for his Eve; she 
was to be Guinevere, not Molly 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 


II 


Seagrim. He met her when he 
was twenty-three and she nine- 
teen. Her name was Anna Chris- 
tian ; she was studying Art in 
Jasper Street, Bloomsbury. At 
seventeen she had married an 
actor — a gentleman with strong 
feelings and a limp backbone. 
He was an Unspeakable man; 
and, having endured all things, 
she left him. It was a bad begin- 
ning, but two years' companion- 
ship with the Impossible had 
taught her to bear the Necessary 
with patience. She was a woman 
who perchance could not have 
learnt that lesson in any other 
school. “I believe, ” she told her 
confessor (she was a Catholic), “I 
really believe I am almost meek.” 
The holy man looked a little 
doubtful. “At any rate,” she fal- 
tered, “I am meeker than I was.” 
He said nothing, but there was a 


12 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


certain eloquence about his eye- 
brows which appealed so strongly 
to her sense of humor that she J 
even woke up in the night to ; 
smile over it. “I don’t care, I 
am meeker,” she murmured, and 
fell asleep again. 

Anna was not born, she was 
made; she had no inherited preju- 
dices, only a consciousness of 
privilege ; she was used to the 
wilderness, and snuffed up the 
wind at her pleasure. The men 
and women she moved among 
had no philosophy of the artistic 
temperament ; they were its un- 
conscious data ; they lived, not as 
they reasoned, but as they felt. 
And Feeling with them was no 
psychological problem ; they ac- 
cepted their moods with their skin 
as part of the human economy. 
In their simplicity they were like 
the philosopher who wrote the 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


*3 






whole tragedy of life in the sen- 
tence: “Appetite, with an opin- 
ion of attaining, is Hope; the 
same, without such opinion, is 
Despair.” Anna found in Rich- 
ard Kilcoursie a man who, though 
not of her world, showed an im- 
mense appreciation for it. If he 
had no art, he had at least a Tem- 
perament. In his enthusaism, his 
impulsiveness, and buoyant sense 
of irresponsibility, he was like the 
men of her own people ; he was 
only unlike them where the differ- 
ence seemed, in her eyes, immeas- 
urably to his advantage. He had 
a grace of manner and bearing 
common enough, it may be, 
among well-born Irishmen, but 
exceedingly rare among the art 
students, journalists, and actors of 
Jasper Street, Bloomsbury. Fur- 
thermore, he was handsome in the 
chaste and classic style. In An- 


14 the sinner’s comedy. 


na’s thoughts he figured chiefly as 
a Work of Art ; that was the first 
impression he left, and the one 
which remained when all others 
were dispelled or forgotten. 
Richard loved her — or thought 
so; she loved him, and thought 
nothing at all about it. A little 
close reasoning would have shown 
her that it was affection and good- 
fellowship she bore him, and no 
more. Marriage — even viewed as 
an impossibility — or the com- 
moner relation in Jasper Street, 
never occurred to her. Her ex- 
perience of the married state had 
been so terrible that she could 
not trust herself to remember it ; 
to anticipate even the risk of an- 
other such made her pale. 

For two years Richard was per- 
fectly happy in her friendship — 
or, at least, possessed by the ex- 
citement which passes so readily 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


*5 


for happiness ; for one he was 
contented ; at the beginning of 
the fourth year he came into his 
title. Then life took at once a 
wider and a narrower meaning; 
wider, because his interests cov- 
ered a larger field ; narrower, be- 
cause his own personality — the 
figure of Sir Richard Kilcoursie — 
blocked up the way. Not that 
his egoism was loud-voiced or 
swaggering — it was merely con- 
stant ; if his intellect had pos- 
sessed an equal stability he 
would, no doubt, have achieved 
greatness. As it was, his pleas- 
ure-loving mind found satisfaction 
— if nothing better presented it- 
self— in the unsatisfactory; he 
endeavored to elude disappoint- 
ment with the same persistence as 
the metaphysician seeks for truth. 
If his love-bird proved a sparrow, 
he would discover unimagined 


l6 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


charms in the sparrow — not the 
least of them being that it had 
been clever enough to deceive 
him. His companionship' with 
Anna was the one really serious 
element in his life. Although her 
attitude toward the world was 
one of indifference, it was only 
because she saved her earnestness 
for her work ; she lived for it and, 
as it were, in it. To be in daily 
association with a woman so de- 
termined and so studious, who, 
though often mistaken in her 
opinions, had always the courage 
of them, gave him a wholesome 
reverence for those who labor to 
other ends than cakes and ale. 
She lived very frugally in two lit- 
tle rooms, and supported herself 
by ‘illustrating; what time she 
could spare from that she de- 
voted to practice in oils. Her 
Masterpiece, as she called it, was 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 


J 7 


only waiting to be painted ; it 
was all in Her mind’s eye. The 
pleasures of her life, outside her 
work, were few and simple ; they 
mostly consisted in going to the 
theater, when she had orders, and 
exploring London. She and 
Richard would tramp for hours 
through squares and terraces, 
crescents, streets, and roads — 
S. E., S. W., and W., N., and 
N. W., and N. E. — they were 
never tired till they reached home, 
and then there would still be 
| something to talk over, to laugh 
1 about and plan for the next day. 
When the change came in Rich- 
ard’s fortune her tastes remained 
the same, but, when they went to 
the theater, they had a box and 
a chaperon. In Jasper Street, 
Bloomsbury, where nature was 
more in vogue than respectability, 
a chaperon was considered an 


l8 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


unnecessary and tedious addition 
to the ordinary plagues of life, but 
Richard explained that Society 
which bought pictures was very 
different from Society which 
painted them ; he pointed out, 
with all possible delicacy, that 
although she might not care for 
the whims of the polite world, he, 
from the habit of his early train- - 
ing, did and must. 

“Do you think, then, you have 
been doing wrong all this time?” i 
said Anna quietly ; “have we i 
sinned in dining together, and 
talking together, and walking 
together?” 

“Of course not,” said Sir Rich- 
ard, flushing; “but one has no 
right to thrust the details of their 
private life and their most sacred 

convictions They wouldn’t 

be understood, to begin with. 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


19 


People would misunderstand us 
altogether.” 

“What does that matter so long 
as we understand . ourselves?” 
said Anna. 

“I could not bear to place you 
in a false position. I have been 
far too careless of appearances as 
it is. In that respect I have been 
abominably selfish.” 

The subject dropped; they 
never returned to it again. But 
Society never heard his most 
sacred convictions. 

If Anna had been true to her- 
self, however, at that crisis she 
would have passed out of his life 
forever and begun the world 
afresh, unfriended. But while 
she could face the world, she 
could not face the loneliness ; sol- N 
itude a deux makes solitude only 
one of two things — perfect rest or 


20 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


complete destruction. In her 
case she feared it would mean 
destruction. Richard, with all 
his shortcomings, had grown, as it 
were, part of her nature; losing 
him would mean losing her dear- 
est weakness. She knew, too, 
that her influence and affection 
were more to him than all the 
moon-swearing passion in the 
world ; that if he could or might 
love a dozen others for their ears 
or their eyebrows, or their way of 
eating bread and butter, he would 
always look to her in trouble and 
perplexity. She would not desert 
him. Matters were at this stage 
when Mrs. Prentice came to 
Hurst Place on a long visit. Sir 
Richard then discovered that he 
was feeling tired of his scheme 
for happiness. He decided that 
purity like Anna’s appealed to 
the sentiment of a man, but did 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


21 


not touch his sympathy. Purity 
itself was too unsympathetic; it 
had no Past. Anna had a heart, 
many tender and lovely traits — 
but she had no passion. He was 
quite sure she had no passion. It 
was a pity. Emily Prentice was 
beautiful; she was young; she 
was witty ; she was a widow — and 
rich. He fell in love with the 
Notion of her. About the same 
time Emily began to wish that he 
could meet some woman (she was 
afraid she could not think of just 
the woman) who would lead him 
into the path of peace. For she 
had heard rumors of a certain 
recklessness, of a cynical despera- 
tion, of a hey-day philosophy, of 
a young eagle playing the jack- 
daw. She felt concerned ; she 
could not sleep for concern. 
When she happened to meet him 
on the highroad one morning, she 


22 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


probably blushed for the same 1 
reason. He blushed too. Emily 
said she was quite sure he would I 
be glad to hear that her mother’s ' 
cold was much better. (The 1 
Lady Middlehurst always had a £ 
cold when there was nothing 
more amusing to catch.) He ex- 
pessed his delight at the tidings. 
Then, by an odd coincidence, 
they both began together. 

“I think ” said Emily. 

“I was wondering ” said Sir 

Richard. 

“I beg your pardon,” said she. 

“Not at all — I interrupted you.” 

4 ‘I forget what I was going to 
say.” 

“So do I.” 

“Isn’t the sky blue?” she said, 
after a pause; “isn’t it beauti- 
ful?” 

“Very beautiful,” said Sir 
Richard. 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 23 


“But you are not looking,” said 
Emily severely. 

“I can always see the sky/’ 
This was bold. He waited to see 
the effect. 

“Yes, but it isn’t always that 
color,” said Emily, glancing heav- 
enward. For an Angel it may be 
she was a shade subtle. 

“Would you be angry if I said 
something?” said the Mortal. 

“How can I tell?” she mur- 
mured. 

“Do you think I would will- 
ingly make you angry?” 

“I am sure you wouldn’t — will- 
ingly. And, in any case, I 
shouldn’t feel anger. I might be 

hurt, or vexed, or ” she smiled 

at him with beguiling sweetness, 
“simply amused.” 

“It might amuse you, for in- 
stance, if I made a fool of my- 
self.” Enamored man is alter- 


24 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


nately the lover and the turkey- 
cock. 

"Well,” said Emily, “after all, .1 
you need not make a fool of your- | 
self. You are not obliged , to ^ 
amuse me that way, are you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said impet- . 
uously. “I don’t know. I only 
know one thing just at present.” 
He caught her hand. (A country 
road has its advantages.) “Only 
one thing, Emily !” 

“Oh! .... That’s a stupid 
thing to know. Forget it!” 

“Never.” 

“Please forget it.” 

“Never! never /” 

“But there are other women — 
much nicer than I am — better 
worth loving — who would love | 
you” 

“I don’t want any other woman 
to love me. I only want to love 
you. May I?” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


25 


She looked at him and owned 
to herself that he was a lover any 
woman would be proud of. 
Honest love, or its semblance, 
will always gain a woman’s sym- 
pathy even if it fails to win her 
heart. To Emily, who doubted 
whether she had a heart to lose, it 
had the added fascination of mys- 
tery. She envied him his gift of 
loving. Next to it, she thought 
the gift of surrendering were most 
to be desired. But she could not 
make up her mind to surrender. 
Freedom, too, was not without its 
sweetness. 

“Love is not for me,” she said, 
with a gentle sigh; “don’t think 
of it — don’t speak of it. There is 
nothing in the world for me but 
to grow old and die. That is my 
future.” She sighed once more 
and glanced down at her half- 
mourning — designed by Worth. 


26 THE sinner’s COMEDY. 


“Let us talk of something 
else.” 

But his blood was up. The an- 
cestral Paddy (on his mother’s 
side) was tugging at his heart- 
strings. “Why did God put you 
in the world — if you are not to be 
loved and worshiped and — oh, 
Emily!” 

She laughed in spite of herself. 
“I am afraid,” she said, “God 
has something else to think of 
besides my love affairs!” 

“Emily!” 

“Yes, Richard.” (He hardly 
liked the Richard — it had a sis- 
terly inflection.) 

“When may I see you again? 
Here are those beastly lodge 
gates. I must see you soon. 
Say, to-morrow.” 

“Well, if you call, you are not 
to say — the things you have said 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


27 


to-day In the first place, 

they are not true.” 

He saw his opportunity. “Not 
true that I love you ! not true 
that I would give my life to even 
kiss your hand !” (which he did on 
the spot, without moving an eye- 
lid) ; “not true that you are the 
most beautiful ” 

“Don’t be silly,” she said, 
blushing. 

“Do you believe me?” 

“I dare say — you think — you 
are in earnest.” She would not 
say more. He, considering it 
well afterward, decided that it 
was enough. He had some 
knowledge of the sex. 





II. 

N a small studio in Chel- 
sea — a studio furnished 
with severe and com- 
fortless simplicity — a 
man and a woman were talking. 
The man was Sir Richard Kil- 
coursie; the woman was Anna 
Christian. There was something 
in her bearing which was even 
majestic; something in her ex- 
pression which was childlike and 
yet not young — a worldly wis- 
dom more elfish than mortal. 
Her pale, delicate face seemed to 
peep out from the cloud of black 
hair which overshadowed her 



THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 29 


brows and hung in a large knot 
at her neck. A mouth which 
seemed too firm to be passionate, 
and was too pretty to be austere, 
gray eyes, full of a tenderness 
which was half mockery, empha- 
sized the contradiction in terms 
which was the strange character- 
istic of the whole woman. Sir 
Richard looked at her furtively, 
and very often with what was 
plainly unwilling admiration. 
He would rather not have ad- 
mired her that day. 

They had been discussing for 
more than an hour various practi- 
cal matters relating to his private 
affairs; the management of his 
estate, certain poor cousins, the 
wages he was going to give his 
new coachman. Every moment 
he grew more startled at her inti- 
mate knowledge of all that con- 
cerned him ; he realized, with dis- 


30 THE SINNER S COMEDY. 


may, that there had been, that 
there was, nothing too trivial or 
too deep in his life for her regard. 

“There is something you want 
to tell me,” she said suddenly; 
“what is it?” 

He laughed uneasily. “I never 
can hide anything from you. I 
suppose — there is — something.” 

“Tell me, then.” Her voice 
was singularly rich and well- 
modulated. 

“Do you remember ” he 

began, and then stopped. 

“Well?” 

“Of course you remember that 
the Middlehursts are my neigh- 
bors. Did I ever mention — Mrs. 
Prentice? She is Lady Middle- 
hurst’s daughter.” 

“I don’t think you mentioned 
her,” she said dryly; “the name 
doesn’t sound familiar. Prentice , 
Prentice. No, you certainly never 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


31 


told me anything about an old 
lady named Prentice.” 

“I wonder whether you would 
like her; but — she’s young.” 

“Young?” said Anna. 

“Well, she’s twenty-two, or so.” 

“I was nineteen when you met 
me! Is she pretty?” 

“ In a way, yes. In fact I sup- 
pose — decidedly.” He pressed his 
temples. 

“ Dark or fair ? ” 

“Neither one nor the other. 
There is nothing extreme about 
her.” 

“ I understand. Tepid ! What 
sort of figure ? ” 

“ She is tall and statuesque,” 
said Sir Richard. “ I always feel 
that she ought to have been called 
Diana. Can you imagine her 
now ? ” 

The corners of her mouth just 
curved. “ I think I can.” 


32 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“The fact is — can’t you guess?” 

“ Why should I trouble to make 
guesses when you are going to tell 
m z everything?" She fixed her 
eyes upon his ; he could not look 
away. 

“ It is hard — in so many words,” 
he stammered. 

“ You are so like a man ! . . . I 
never thought you were chicken- 
hearted. You did not seem so 
when I loved you. Perhaps I 
should say — when you loved 
me .” 

“ I tell you,” he said, springing 
to his feet, “ Emily bores me. Do 
you think I love her? Do you 
think she is like you? ” He put his 
hand with some roughness on her 
shoulder, and undoubtedly gave 
her a shake. There was a some- 
thing in his violence, however, 
which convinced her far more than 
his protestations that Emily Pren- 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 33 


tice very possibly did bore him — 
or would. Her heart softened. 

“You never wanted to call me 
Diana,” she sighed. 

“ I shouldn’t dream of her,” he 
said, walking up and down the 
room — “ I shouldn’t dream of her 
if it were not for the estate, and 
all that. I must have an heir. You 
see, I really owe it to my people. 
It’s only common decency on my 
part.” 

“ I thought you did not believe 
in marriage ? ” 

“ I didn’t at one time. I had no 
responsibilities then — no means. 
It was very different. A younger 
spn cannot be expected to believe 
in anything.” 

“ And is no one expected to 
believe in a younger son ? ” It was 
seldom she was betrayed into bit- 
terness — a fact which most people 
attributed to her want of feeling. 


34 the sinner’s comedy. 

“ I thought you would make a 
scene. Women are so unreason- 
able. I have told you that Emily 
cannot compare with you. What 
more can I say ? Even now,” he 
added, a little unsteadily, “ I 
would let my family go to the 
devil if you would give up your 
extraordinary ideas and ” 

“ Richard,” she said gravely, “ I 
will forgive what you were go- 
ing to say.” 

“ If you cared for me you would 
not think you had anything to 
forgive,” he answered, with a 
harsh laugh. “ There is no crime 
in being Real. But there is so 
much mawkish, false sentiment 
about women, that a man is driven 
to hypocrisy in spite of himself.” 

“ If you want a creature who 
will love you in your Real mo- 
ments — if this is one — and in spite 
of them, you must look for her 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 35 


among the Pollies and Sallies. 
With them, what they call love 
is the only feeling — they have no 
others to offend.” 

Sir Richard looked at her, and 
wondered. “The truth is,” he 
said, “ men can’t follow your way 
of loving. You see, they don’t 

understand it. It’s so — so ” he 

paused for the word — “well, it’s 
so self-possessed.” v 

“ When are you going to be 
married ? ” she asked presently. 

He felt the awkwardness of the 
question : Emily had given no 
promise yet. 

“There is nothing definitely 
arranged — at present.” 

“ Well, I hope you will be 
happy.” 

A feeling not wholly unlike 
disappointment crept over him. 
For the first time in their his- 
tory he doubted her love. The 


36 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 

thought brought a gnawing 
loneliness. 

“ Do you quite understand it all, 
Anna?” 

“ Perfectly. She will be the 
mother of your heir ; you will be 
faithful to her — in your better 
moments.” 

He blushed and said. “ You 
know where to stab.” 

He could not see her ; she 
touched the back of his coat with 
the tip of her fingers. That 
brought her some comfort. 

“There is nothing more to be 
said,” he went on. 

“ Let me see her portrait,” said 
Anna suddenly. 

He pulled a small leather case 
out of his breast pocket. 

“ How did you know I had it ? ” 
he asked. 

“ I guessed,” she said, with a 
faint smile ; “ you used to carry 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 37 

mine!” She studied the photo- 
graph for some minutes and then 
returned it. “You will be very 
glad,” she said, “ to remember 
me.” 

He looked at her more than 
half-credulously. She nodded her 
head. He laughed and went to 
kiss her. Anna stepped back : 
her eyes blazed. 

“ Never do that again,” she said. 

A china vase — the one ornament 
in the bare room — stood near the 
doorway. Sir Richard lifted his 
cane and struck it. It fell in a 
dozen pieces. 

“You have no heart,” he said, 
“not an atom. You don’t care 
for me in the least. You never, 
did.” 

“ Yes, I did,” she answered. 

“ I will write.” 

“ Yes, write.” 

“I suppose I must go now.” 


38 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“ Very well.” She followed him 
into the hall. “ Richard.” 

“ What ? ” 

“Say — you don’t care a damn!” 

His lips moved, but he uttered 
no word. 

And so he left her. 

Her life with Sir Richard had 
been one of self-abnegation. She 
had danced to his piping and wept 
at his mourning: she had been his 
companion — he had never been 
hers. At first she had asked noth- 
ing better — a peculiarity in wom- 
an’s love — at first ; but, as time 
went on, the desire to pipe a note 
or two and mourn just a sigh or 
so on her own account was often 
fierce, not to be subdued, a little 
desperate. Still, he had been kind 
to her, and faithful according to 
his lights. She glanced at her 
easel, but she was in no mood for 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 39 


work that day. She amused her- 
self looking through an old sketch- 
book. She found page after 
page of Richard smoking, Richard 
sleeping, Richard laughing, Rich- 
ard scowling, Richard standing, 
Richard sitting, Richard reading, 
Richard profile, Richard full-face, 
Richard threerquarters, Richard 
back-view. Four of them she 
rubbed out. She was about to 
rub out a fifth, when she burst 
into tears. 




III. 

WO ladies and two gen- 
tlemen were seated in 
the library of a country- 
house one afternoon in 
September. One of the gentle- 
men wore the gaiters of a 
Dean. One of the ladies looked 
as though she would like to wear 
them, if only for half an hour. 
As it happened, however, she was 
dressed in a very tight and evi- 
dently very new gray silk, em- 
bellished with strings of beads. 
These jangled and danced with 
all her movements, to her evident 
satisfaction and the men’s secret 



THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


41 


despair. She was a small woman 
and extremely slight, yet, in spite 
of her slimness, there was not the 
faintest sign of bone about her; 
in fact, it was said that the Dean’s 
sister had not a bone in her body. 
She was composed of flesh, blood, 
and spirit. 

The other lady, Mrs. Digby 
Vallence, was tall and spare, with 
a small face, big eyes, and a large 
mouth. Digby was fond of say- 
ing that his wife’s face was geo- 
metrically impossible. The parts 
were greater than the whole. She 
was a very amiable, intelligent 
woman, who played Schumann 
with a weak wrist and was noted 
for her cookery recipes. Her hus- 
band would not have given her 
fora seraglio of houris. 

He himself was a man about 
fifty, with a clean-shaven face and 
handsome, clearly cut features. 


42 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


The ends of his pale yellow neck- 
tie were tied with artistic abandon , 
his short serge coat was of the 
finest texture, and his loose trous- 
ers, of the same material, hung 
with an idea of drapery about his 
elegant legs. He wore the self- 
satisfied air of the criticised turned 
critic : his general expression con- 
veyed that life was one long 
struggle with his own fastidious- 
ness — that he practiced toleration 
as the saints did self-denial. Mr. 
Digby Vallence was a gentleman 
of some fame, who had translated 
Theocritus out of honesty into 
English, discovered a humorist in 
Jeremy Taylor, damned Rousseau, 
and, in his leisure, bred canaries. 
His celebrated paradox, “ There 
is nothing so natural as Art,” was 
perhaps even more famous than 
he. 

“You have never told us,” he 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


43 


said, addressing the Dean, 
“what you think of Mrs. 
Prentice.” 

The Dean, who sat in the cor- 
ner, had a fine, expressive face, 
which suggested his mobile dis- 
position. The type was too un- 
usual to strike a thoughtless ob- 
server as anything more than 
severe ; women, without excep- 
tion, called him odd-looking, and 
were silent. He did not appeal 
to them — to begin with, he be- 
trayed no desire to appeal to 
them. An unpardonable insult. 
The melancholy which clouded 
his countenance was neither gen- 
tle nor resigned ; on the contrary, 
rather fierce and self-mocking. 
This fierceness was intensified by 
a pair of heavy eyebrows and 
very piercing brown eyes. (“ One 
can never lie to Sacheverell with 
any degree of comfort,” said the 


44 the sinner’s comedy. 


plaintive Vallence.) He was 
tall and well-made, although he 
stooped a little and looked some 
years older than he really was. 
In point of fact he was forty. 
But a man’s age depends on his 
history. His history had been 
dull, gray, and unromantic — an 
even saunter into success which 
only seemed to him a crueler 
name for failure. “ Sacheverell 
promised to be brilliant,” said his 
college tutor once, “ but I am 
afraid he is only solid. He will 
be a rock for other men to sharpen 
their wits on.” To guess a man’s 
fate is comparatively easy : to 
perceive its necessity, its why and 
wherefore, is given only to the 
man himself, and then after much 
seeking and through a mist. 

The Dean’s sister, Mrs. Molle, 
was the widow of an Irish Major, 
who had left her his lame hunter, 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 45 


four very healthy little boys, and 
a dying command that she should 
do her duty by tire children. 
Sacheverell awoke one morning 
to find the pitiful group on his 
doorstep in St. Thomas’s-in-the- 
Lanes, where he held a small 
living. 

“ I knew you would be glad to 
have us,” said Eleanor. 

The next day his study was re- 
ferred to as the drawing room, 
and he was moved to the attic 
away from the children’s noise. 
Eleanor soon complained, how- 
ever, that the neighborhood was 
dull, and the house far too small 
for comfort. She had no boudoir, 
and the nursery chimney smoked. 
She gave his old housekeeper 
notice, and lectured him on his 
want of ambition. As a means 
of advancement she advised that 
he should get a better living, in a 


46 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


decent neighborhood ; take pupils, 
and preach somebody’s funeral 
sermon. “ A man is not sup- 
posed to keep a family on a Fel- 
lowship,” she said. He glanced 
guiltily at his violin ; it represent- 
ed half a year’s income. 

“ That ,” said Eleanor, “ will 
lead to nothing but liver-com- 
plaint. Providence sent me to 
you at the right moment. You 
do nothing all day but play and 
dream and scribble. You surely 
spend a fortune on music-paper. 
I hope you get it at the stores ? ” 
He shook his head. There was 
a small shop near — it was so much 
more convenient ; he could not 
say what they charged him; it 
would be on the bill, no doubt, 

but when he was in a hurry 

“That is not the sort of thing 
one is ever likely to want 
in a hurry,” said Eleanor ; “ if 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 47 


you send a postal card to the 
Stores ” 

He was, it may be, a little quick- 
tempered. “ I could never order 
anything — connected with my 
work — in the same list with soap 
and Gregory powder and beef-ex- 
tract. It may be ridiculous, but 
that is my feeling. Nothing will 
change it.” 

But all this happened when 
Sacheverell was a young man, as 
the world counts youth, when his 
dream was to write Masses on 
Mount Athos. Now he was a 
Dean, and visited country-houses. 
“ I have made him what he is,” 
Mrs. Molle told her friends ; 
“ no wife could have done more 
for him ! ” 

Men heap together the mistakes 
of their lives and create a monster 
which they call Destiny. Some 
take a mournful joy in contem- 


48 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


plating the ugliness of the idol. 
These are called Stoics. Others 
build it a temple like Solomon’s, 
and worship the temple. These 
are called Epicureans. The Dean 
of Tenchester was a Stoic. 

‘‘You have never told us,” re- 
peated Vallence, “what you think 
of Mrs. Prentice.” 

“ I suppose,” said Sacheverell, 
“ she would be called pretty.” 

“ I have seen her look pretty 
sometimes,” said his sister, at 
once. “ She varies very much. 
Her hats don’t always suit her.” 

He tried to feel that this was 
not disturbing. 

“Well,” said Vallence, leaning 
back in his chair, with his eyes 
scanning, as it were, the hidden 
truths of criticism, “she is not, 
properly speaking, a pretty woman 
at all. She is a Manner. To call 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 


49 


such a work of exquisite cunning 
pretty, or even beautiful, is only 
an attempt at appreciation. ” 

“ She is very subtle,” said his 
wife. 

“ Next time I see her I will look 
at her more carefully,” said Mrs. 
Molle. She paused, and then 
asked very suddenly, “ Do you 
think she will ever marry Sir Rich- 
ard Kilcoursie ? ” 

“ She likes Kilcoursie, no 
doubt,” said Vallence. “He is cer- 
tainly amour acht, and she accepts 
the situation. I don’t suppose he 
wants her to do more. It is only 
a very unselfish man who cares to 
be loved ; the majority prefer to 
love — it lays them under fewer 
obligations.” 

“ Do you think they would ever 
be happy together ? ” said Sache- 
verell, slowly. 

Vallence shrugged his shoulders. 


50 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“ She must be disappointed in 
some man. To see men as they 
are not and never could be, is the 
peculiar privilege of the feminine 
nature. You see,” he went on, 
“ love comes to man through his 
senses — to woman through her 
imagination. I might even say, 
taking the subject on broad lines, 
that women love men for their 
virtue ; while men, very often, 
love women for the absence of it.” 

“ A woman would no doubt need 
a great deal of imagination to love 
a man for his virtue,” said Carlotta 
meekly. 

But Vallence was lost in 
meditation. He had conceived a 
magazine article to be called “The 
Pleasing of a Lute,” and begin- 
ning thus : “ The poet in his arti- 
ficial passion expresses what man 
feels naturally and needs all of his 
reason to repress . . . .” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 5 1 


“ I have heard, as one does hear 
such things,” said Mrs. Molle, 
“ that Sir Richard almost married 
an actress.” 

“ I think she was an artist,” said 
Carlotta; “but pray never speak 
of it before Emily.” 

The actress who might have 
been an artist was grateful to 
Sacheverell’s fancy. He had a 
fine Bohemian instinct. “In- 
deed,” he said, and looked at Val- 
lence. 

“Ah,” said that gentleman, 
ever ready to discuss one friend 
with another — in fact, it was 
chiefly for this pleasure that he 
made them — “ah, a curious affair 
altogether. But it merely illus- 
trates the great law of infidelity 
in human nature. A man mtvst 
be faithless to something — either 
to a woman, or his God, or his 
firmest belief. Kilcoursie certain- 


5 2 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


ly appeared very devoted to the 
other lady — whoever she was. I 
have heard from several people 
that they were always together at 
one time. No one knows her 
name. They tell me that she 
looks like Vittoria Colonna.” 

“Dear me, ” said Eleanor, think- 
ing that she must hunt Vittoria 
out in the Classical Dictionary. 

Sacheverell strolled to the win- 
dow. “ It has stopped raining,” 
he said. “ I think I will go out.” 

Once in the open air, he threw 
back his head very much like a 
dog let loose from his chain. He 
almost wondered how he had es- 
caped from that close room, the 
clatter of the tea-cups, .the worse 
clatter of tongues. As a rule, he 
fell a too ready victim to circum- 
stances: he helped to build the 
altar for his own sacrifice. To- 
day, however, he felt rebellious; 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


he was getting tired ; Eleanor had 
disappointed him. When a man 
gets an idea into his head about a 
woman, either to her glory or her 
damnation, whatever she may say 
or do only gives him one more 
reason for sticking to it. It is 
only when he gets an equally 
strong idea about some other 
subject, or some other woman, 
that he becomes nicely critical. 
Eleanor’s virtues had always 
seemed to him unique ; her faults, 
numerous certainly, were only 
those of the Universal (preferably, 
the Homeric) Woman. That af- 
ternoon her judgment had been 
very shallow ; she had shown an 
incapacity to look higher than 
millinery. It was vexatious. . . . 

He remembered his first meet- 
ing with Mrs. Prentice. It was 
the day after his arrival at the 
Vallences’ ; she had called in the 


54 the sinner's comedy. 


afternoon on her dear Carlotta : 
he had told himself he was inter- 
ested, choosing that word because 
he knew no other, for no man 
knows his language till he has 
lived it. The possibility of feel- 
ing more than an interest in any 
woman had never entered his 
head. He had always kept Pas- 
sion well within covers on his 
bookshelf. Emily had talked, 
with a pretty affectation of learn- 
ing (feeling, no doubt, that a Dean 
would look for something of the 
sort), of Heine, and a new poet, 
and Palestrina ; he had noticed 
the length of her eyelashes, and 
her beautiful, unmusicianly hands ; 
hummed, when she had gone, My 
love is like a melody , and reflected, 
having dined indifferently, that 
some women were like melodies. 
The indefinite “ some women ” is 
an inspiration which comes to 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 55 


every man in his hour of peril. 
From which it would seem that 
men and Deans have very much 
in common. . . . Their second 
meeting, too, three days later, 
when she called again, and was 
pleased to admire his drawings (in 
the style of Durer) illustrative of 
certain passages in Lucretius. 
He hastened to explain, however, 
that the philosophy of that poet 
was unconvincing. “ What is his 
philosophy ? ” said Emily. . . . 
Then, when he had dined at Hurst 
Place, how they had disagreed on 
several points, misunderstood each 
other with a certain deliberate- 
ness, said good-by coldly. How, 
the next morning, feeling restless, 
he had walked on the highroad 
for no other reason than because 
it was dusty, unpicturesque, and 
apparently leading no-whither — 
suggestive to the Thinking Mind 


56 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


of man’s existence ; how She had 
driven past with her mother, be- 
decked and smiling, disquieting 
alike to metaphysic and the sober 
contemplation of telegraph poles. 
Then at the Tableaux in aid of 
the New Hospital, when Emily 
as “Vivien ” — under lime-light — 
had gazed with real sisterly affec- 
tion on the round and impassive 
countenance of the Honorable 
Robert as “ Merlin.” Sacheverell 
had felt with some impatience the 
incompatibility of such trifling 
with a true appreciation of the 
seriousness of life ; it showed him 
that Emily was frivolous, also that 
her hair fell below her waist. 
Both discoveries were soul-pla- 
guing: the first because it jarred 
so horribly, the second because he 
shared.it with assembled Hert- 
fordshire. After the performance 
he had been the last to come for- 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 57 


ward : the only one who did not 
offer some tribute (more or less 
disguised) to her beauty. “ I am 
afraid,” she had said, when she 
wished him good-night, “ you don't 
care for Tennyson ! ” He made a 
note in his pocketbook to the fol- 
lowing effect: “No man can at- 
tain the sublimity of the feminine 
egoist." Frivolity! Egoism! 
what were such abstracts weighed 
against that most sweet and tangi- 
ble Feminine. To have discov- 
ered that some woman was Femi- 
nine was better than chasing 
the Absolute through the Libra- 
ries of Europe. It was, however, 
but a momentary rebellion against 
the ruling uncertainty of his life. 
He had dedicated his days (he 
lived, from his own point of view, 
for two hours every morning be- 
fore breakfast — and Eleanor) to 
the pursuit of the Absolute. His 


58 the sinner’s comedy. 


work when finished was to be 
called “ The Metaphysic of Re- 
ligion ” : every one said it would 
make him a bishop. Should he 
question the glory of the Unseen 
because one fair woman was in 
sight? Bitter self-reproach fol- 
lowed his brief moment of exul- 
tation. 

“ All is vanity,” he sighed, at 
last, “ and discovering it — the 
greatest vanity.” In this frame 
of mind he looked up, and saw 
he was near the church. The 
door was half open : he heard the 
organ and recognized the touch. 
It belonged to no master-hand : 
it lacked everything that 
makes a touch — save audacity. 
He smiled at the childishness of 
the performance : it was too un- 
affectedly bad to offend his artistic 
taste. He pushed open the door 
and looked in. The player was 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 59 


Emily. She wore a scarlet gown 
fantastically embroidered in blue 
and gold ; the light from the flar- 
ing gas-jet played on her hair and 
caught the diamonds on her fin- 
gers. In the dark, empty church, 
she looked to him like some evil 
spirit risen for his destruction. 
An evil spirit! Emily playing 
“ Cujus Animam,” with varia- 
tions. 

Sacheverell closed the door 
softly — she never heard him — and 
hurried away. 




IV. 

LL the tenants of Ave- 
nue Villas, Clapham, 
kept a servant ; most of 
them were on visiting 
terms with the curate’s wife; 
here and there one had been 
known to dine at the Vicarage ; 
one widow, who lived at the cor- 
ner, had some rich relations who 
occasionally called on her in a 
carriage and pair. She was a 
Baptist, however, and the curate’s 
w r ife did not even know her name. 
She fancied it was Grimmage. 
Mrs. Grimmage, notwithstanding, 
was a worthy person, and she 



THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


6i 

had a permanent boarder whom 
the whole of Avenue Villas held 
in very just esteem. This board- 
er was a Mr. Cunningham Legge. 

By profession Mr. Legge was a 
humorist; he also wrote the obit- 
uaries in The Argus (Lord Middle- 
hurst’s daily paper); he deviled 
for one or two scholarly authors 
(being great in grammar and 
punctuation) ; he was taster to a 
a poor but eminently respectable 
firm of publishers ; he had written 
a volume of very graceful Essays 
himself : “ To the Night-winds and 
the Moon.” One critic wrote of 
them that their style reminded 
him of Ruskin, the Letters of 
Cicero, and Charles Dickens. 

It was generally known that 
Cunningham was the son of a 
clergyman, a fact which, apart 
from his genius and his literary 


62 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


calling, sufficiently explained his 
poverty; that his wife had died 
a few years after their marriage ; 
that he had never been the same 
man since ; that he worked from 
morning till night; that no one 
had ever heard him complain. 
To look at he was pale, and, to 
the unseeing eye, insignificant; a 
man who could sit for hours any- 
where and in any company unob- 
served and silent — indeed, his 
silence at all times was tragic. 
To a woman like Mrs. Grimmage 
it was even awful and mysterious ; 
she tried to understand him, but 
could not. He was too dim ; he 
seemed already in the land of 
shadows. 

His two little girls he kept at a 
school in the country ; he had no 
friends who called to see him — if 

he had any he saw them in town; 

/ 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 63 


the only creature who ventured to 
Avenue Villas was, oddly enough, 
a young and beautiful woman. 
She was his niece, and Mrs. Grim- 
mage knew her as “Mrs. Chris- 
tian.” She had heard Legge ad- 
dress her as “Anna.” But she 
came very seldom, and he never 
referred to her. Months would 
pass, when the good Grimmage 
could only wonder whether she 
were dead or gone abroad. 

“Mr. Legge,” she found cour- 
age to say to him one day, “is 
Mrs. Christian a widow?” 

“No,” he said quietly. 

Mrs. Grimmage had just nursed 
him through a very sharp attack 
of bronchitis; she felt she might 
safely venture on a little light 
conversation. 

“She don’t favor you, sir.” 

“She is my wife’s niece.” 


64 the sinner’s comedy. 


“Is she anything like her?” 

“No,” he said; “my wife was 
beautiful — I cannot tell you how 
beautiful.” For the lover there 
is only one glory. He paused 
and sighed ; his eyes seemed to 
pierce into another world. 

“Fancy!” said Mrs. Grimmage, 
“only fancy! Was she very 
nice?” 

“Nice? Dear God! Where 
did you learn that word? Nice!” 
He threw back his head and 
laughed. But only for a moment. 
The old dumbness once more 
took possession of him ; he went 
silently out of the room and shut 
himself in his study. Mrs. Grim- 
mage, who peeped in a little later 
as much from nervousness as curi- 
osity, found him hard at work on 
his humorous sketch for The 
Gossip. 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 65 


He had written for more than 
three hours when he was roused 
by a sharp tap at the door. He 
opened it, and Anna, paler and 
graver than her wont, stood be- 
fore him. 

“Are you busy?” she said. 
“Shall I disturb you?” 

“I am glad you have come,” 
he said, “I was wondering what 
had become of you.” 

She sat down, took off her hat 
and loosened her cloak. “Now I 
am here I am afraid you will find 
me very dull. I have been work- 
ing rather hard lately. I have 
also been disappointed in one or 
two things. Not that I should 
mind disappointment — now.” 

Legge glanced at his book- 
shelves. '“Stick to the Immor- 
tals,” he said ; “ they will never dis- 
appoint you. And they are al- 


66 the sinner’s comedy. 


ways there — when you want 
them.” 

“Ah,” said Anna, “but unfor- 
tunately before we can love the 
Immortals and understand them ; 
we must have some experience of 
the Mortal.” 

He sighed, and made no an- 
swer. 

“Have you any news?” said 
Anna. “How are the children?” 

“They are well. They write 
me very happy letters. Mary 
has the French prize and Laura 
has smashed the schoolroom 
window. They both want new 
hats.” 

“Let me choose them,” she 
said ; “they would like them much 
better if they came from London. 
Children have a great idea of 
style.” She began to laugh — not 
hysterically, but without mirth. 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 67 


“Richard is going to be married,” 
she said. 

Legge’s pale face burned with 
sympathy. He was not altogeth- 
er surprised at the news — like 
most people of melancholic tem- 
per, he had a quick insight into 
human nature. He had known, 
from the commencement, that 
Kilcoursie’s marriage with some 
other woman would be only a 
question of time. Anna was bear- 
ing it better than he had hoped ; 
her lips quivered, and she bit 
them. In that one movement he 
saw the whole struggle. 

“When did you hear it?” he 
said, after a long, a painful pause. 

“Four days ago. He told me 
— himself.” 

“I am afraid it was the only 
end possible,” he said gently. 

“I suppose so.” 


68 the sinner’s comedy. 


“Were you — very much — as- 
tonished?” 

“A little.” 

“Will it make a great difference 
in your life?” 

“I miss him,” she said. For 
one moment her eyes shone — for 
even tears have a brief brilliancy, 
a youth — and then their light was 
quenched. “It is hard to have 
no one to talk to. Do you think 
it will take very long to get used 
t® this — silence?” 

“Not long,” said Legge. “You 
will be surprised to find how soon 
■ — how very soon you will care for 
nothing else.” 

“He was all — I had in the 
world,” said Anna, “the one crea- 
ture who seemed to love me. I 
am not going to cry. Tears 
mean very little. I have cried. 
But that’s nothing.” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 69 


“Nothing,” said Legge, staring 
into the fire, “nothing.” 

“This is my birthday,” said An- 
na. “I am twenty-three. I /eel very 
old, much older than you, really, 
and I — I do feel so tired. I’m 
afraid I have been overworking.” 

“Work is good,” murmured 
Legge, “the only good — except 
Hope. I have lots of Hope.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Anna, “there is 
Hope.” She looked hopeless. 

“I have been harder hit than 
you,” said Legge. “I died twelve 
years ago ; the only thing about 
me that lives is my stomach. I 
remember they fed it with chops 
— on the day She was buried. 
Life is certainly humorous.” 

They were both laughing when 
Mrs. Grim mage came in with the 
tea. She wanted to know whether 
they preferred scones or muffins. 



V. 

OU must have loved 
somebody else once?” 

“Never. In the first 
place, it is impossible to 
really love — more than once.” 

“To really love, perhaps — but 
men have fancies*!” 

It was in the music room at the 
Vallences’. Emily was taking off 
her gloves. Sir Richard was 
watching her. They had both 
called on Carlotta by appointment 
to discuss a forthcoming bazaar; 
Carlotta, with a magnificent in- 
stinct, was detained at the Vicar- 
age. The gentle Digby was en- 



THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 


7 * 


gaged in his study reviving an 
old dramatist. He could not be 
disturbed. 

“ Men have died and worms have 
eaten them” said Sir Richard ; 
“ these things will happen.” 

“Then you have had fancies,” 
she said, with just a note of dis- 
appointment in her voice (she, 
too, had a mind for Exceptions) — 
“ was it very long ago ? ” 

For one brief, too brief moment, 
he felt tempted to tell her the 
truth. She was a woman who 
could hear the truth, and even 
speak it. It never affected her 
disagreeably in either case. He 
thought he might hint something 
of a youthful madness, and Emily, 
true to her sex, would no doubt 
forgive it all with divine generos- 
ity, and hate the woman at the 
bottom of it like the devil. 


72 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“ I never had any fancies,” he 
said, at last, and (theoretically) 
tore up Anna’s last note, at that 
moment in his pocket. But even 
this did not make her easier to 
forget. 

Emily sighed contentedly. He 
was reinstated as the Exceptional 
man. 

“ I think that is very nice of 
you,” said she frankly. “ I didn’t 
really, in my heart, believe that 
you had. I was almost afraid — 
you are so dreadfully honest — 
that you were going to confess to 
— perhaps one .” 

“ What do you think of the 
Dean?” said Richard, after a 
pause. 

“I don’t think he was born to 
preach to people who want their 
Heaven to be full of Mansions.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 73 


“ Just what I said. It was not 
a spontaneous criticism. I thought 
him out this morning, when Haw- 
kins was doing my hair. I always 
reserve that half-hour of the day 
for sober reflection.” She blushed. 
“I suppose you think I am very 
frivolous. Women have to be; no 
one will take them seriously — not 
even other women. It is very hard. 
But what was I saying about the 
Dean? Oh — well, there isn’t an 
ounce of Dean about him. He’s 
much too natural.” 

“ What an extraordinary idea ! 
Don’t be angry, but I’m afraid 
you are not a good judge of 
character. ” He colored as he 
said it. He had too excellent 
reasons for doubting her discern- 
ment. “ I never saw anyone so 
stern and unbending as Sachev- 
erell in my life. ” 


74 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“ That sternness is merely self- 
restraint, ” said Emily ; “ how 

much self-restraint do you think 
the Dean uses to endure Mrs. 
Molle? ” 

“ I should say she managed 
him very well. ” 

“ How little men understand 
each other, ” said she, “ how very 
little ! Mrs. Molle is helpless 
and unhelpful. I shall never for- 
get his expression when Mr. Val- 
lence quoted one day, ‘ It is better 
to dwell in a corner of the housetop 
than with a brazvling woman in a 
wide house. ’ And she, ” added 
Emily, “she is so unconscious. 
She thinks she governs him com- 
pletely. ” 

“ How intolerable ! I should 
hate to think I was being 
governed. I would do anything 
for — the woman I loved.” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 75 


(This he said softly, and uttered 
the word “ woman” as though it 
were something too sacred for his 
lips — a piece of subtle flattery by 
no means lost on the sensitive be- 
ing by his side.) “I would do 
anything, ” he repeated, “ but it 
would be knowingly, and for 
love. ” 

“ The secret of managing a 
man, ” said the Guileless One, “is 
to let him have his own way in 
little things. He will change his 
plan of life when he won’t 
change his bootmaker ! ” 

“ How much you know ! ” 

“ Don’t I ? ” 

He picked up the tassel of her 
girdle. “ That is very pretty,” 

he said ; “ those little stones ” 

He walked away from her and 
began to pace the floor. “ How 
long is this to go on?” he said. 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“What is the limit to a man’s 
patience ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said 
Emily. “ What are you talking 
about ? ” 

“ I mean — what are we waiting 
for ? ” 

“ I suppose,” said Emily, “ we 
are waiting for Carlotta — and tea.” 
Women have boundless faith in 
the sobering effect of Common- 
place. It is the remedy they 
administer to disordered pas- 
sions. 

Sir Richard looked at her with 
something like anger. “ This is 
not a subject which can be 
changed that way. I must speak. 
I should despise myself if I did 
not. Do you care — a rap for 
me ? ” 

“ Yes/” said Emily at once, “I 
like you very much. I think you 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 77 


; have a great deal in you. But I 
i want you to use your talents. I 
i suppose I am ambitious for you. 
A woman likes a man to be her 
master. That’s a secret. I want 
| you to be what people say you 
could be — if you chose. I hate 
; an Idler.” 

“ What do you want me to 
do?” 

“ Be of some service to your 
country. Be a serious politi- 
cian.” 

He could not help smiling. 
“ What ! make speeches and all 
that sort of thing ?” 

“If necessary — yes.” 

“Are you in earnest?” 

“ In earnest ! ” said Emily. “ If 
I could only tell you a tenth part 
of all I would have you do ! But 
I cannot. Some thoughts be- 
long to a language we can’t 


78 the sinner’s comedy. 


speak.” She was wishing that 
his eyes were dark and earnest — 
like Sacheverell’s : that his face 
had the nobility of Sacheverell’s 
— that he was Sacheverell. 

“ Don’t dream about me, 
Emily,” said Sir Richard; “that 
sort of ambition is called dream- 
ing. I shall only grieve you when 
you wake up. I live to amuse 
myself. I think life is the most 
lively thing going. I want to en- 
joy every hour of it. But I must 
enjoy it anyhow.* And it is 
such a different way from yours — 
so very, very different. If you 
care for me ever so little, let it be 
for me as I am. I should always 
be jealous of the imaginary Me. 
I should know I was only his 
shadow.” 

“ I do — like you as you are,” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 79 


murmured Emily. “ I am sure I 
am not mistaken.” 

“Do you like me well enough 
to be my wife ? ” 

“ I don’t know — I — you see — I 
— don’t want to be anybody’s 
wife — just yet.” 

“ I will wait — I will wait as long 
as you wish. I only want to know 
that some day ” 

Some day sounded a lifetime 
distant. “ Who knows — what 
might happen — some day?” she 
said. 

He drew a long breath. “Will 
you promise? ” 

To promise that something 
would happen some day seemed 
even childish in its simplicity. 
“ If you like,” she said, half laugh- 
ing. 

“ My love for you,” he said, “ is 


8o THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


a power outside myself. I can- 
not control it — it controls me. 
It is for you to decide whether 
for good or evil.” Dimly it oc- 
curred to him that he had said 
something of the kind once be- 
fore — to Anna. “ I will try to be 
worthy of you,” he added. She 
was a very pretty woman. He 
stooped and kissed her hand. 

Just then Sacheverell entered 
the room. 

“They told me you were here,” 
he said ; “ I have come to say 
good-by. I have just received a 
telegram which calls me back to 
town. I must catch the 5.40.” 

He looked so unlike himself 
that Emily faltered, “ I hope it 
is not bad news? ” 

“ A very old friend is dying,” 
he said ; “ he has sent for me. 
That is all.” 


the sinner’s comedy. 8i 


“ I am sorry,” said Emily. 

“ If he lived it would be sadder.” 

“ How is that ? ” said Sir Rich- 
ard, who was admiring Emily’s 
mouth. 

“ Because,” said Sacheverell, 
sternly, “ his life has been all 
work and suffering.” 

“ I am sorry,” murmured Emily 
again. 

“ Do not pity him. He has 
chosen the good part. Good-by.” 
He shook hands with them both 
and went out. 

“ He is very depressing,” said 
Sir Richard, after a pause. Emily 
did not hear. She was listening 
to the echo of Sache-verell’s foot- 
steps as it grew fainter and finally 
ceased. 

“ I believe you rather like him,” 
said Sir Richard jealously. 

“ He was interesting. . He has 


82 THE sinner’s COMEDY. 


made me forget three head- 
aches ! ” 

“Yes? A man may give his 
whole life to a woman, and it 
won’t mean so much to her as if 
he had once jawed her out of 
neuralgia ! ” 

“ And a woman,” said Emily, 
“ may give her soul for a man, 
and he won’t think so much of 
her as if — she had jilted him for 
somebody else.” 

Sir Richard laughed. “ We 
must not take human nature too 
seriously ! That is the mistake 
which lies at the root of all the 
misery and discontent in the 
world ! ” 

Then Carlotta came in — apolo- 
getic, but smiling. 



VI. 

HAT' is the time, 
Anna ? ” 

“ It is past eleven, 
uncle. He will not come 
now. You must wait till morn- 
ing. Besides, there is no hurry. 
Won’t you try and go to sleep? ” 
“He said he would come, and 
he will be here. He always keeps 
his word. Put the clock where I 
can see it, dear, and go to bed. 
If I want anything, I will ring. ” 
“ I am not tired enough — to go 
to bed, ” said Anna, whose eyes 
were heavy with watching. “ Let 
me read you to sleep. If Dean 





84 the sinner’s comedy. 


Sacheverell comes, I can wake 
you. ” 

Legge had been ill for nearly a 
fortnight. They said he had not 
rested sufficiently after his attack 
of bronchitis; he had tried his 
strength too soon ; they called his 
condition a relapse. He knew it 
was the end, because he felt so 
happy. “ To see you lying in bed 
and not fretting and grizzling 
over it, is a perfect treat!” said 
Mrs. Grimmage. 

“ I have no book to finish this 
time, ” he said, smiling ; “ that is 
all done. ” 

When he told them — for Anna, 
too, had come to nurse him — that 
he wished to see a friend, it was 
regarded as a hopeful sign. There 
was a touch of the Usual and 
Human in the desire which 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 85 


cheered the soul of Sarah Grim- 
mage. “ He only wants livening 
up, bless you ! ” she said to the 
doctor. 

Anna fell asleep in her chair 
while Legge watched the clock. 
At a quarter to twelve Sacheverell 
arrived. 

“ I suppose,” he said, “ you had 
given me up ? ” 

“ No,” said Legge, “ I knew you 
would come.” 

Sacheverell just noticed that a 
pale woman with gray eyes mur- 
mured something to the sick man, 
and left the room. In some way 
she seemed a remarkable woman 
— quite unlike any other woman 
he had ever seen. As he looked 
at her, it seemed like reading an 
unfinished tragedy — with the 


86 the sinner’s comedy. 


catastrophe to be written. When 
she had gone, Legge turned to 
him and sighed. 

“ That is my Dearest’s niece,” 
he said, “ the one whose mother 
— had a history — you remember. 
I should feel so glad — if it were 
not for her. I am not much to 
her, but when I am gone she will 
have no one. She has had a terri- 
ble life. I wanted to tell you 
some of it — I am afraid I’m 
hardly strong enough — to-night.” 
He spoke with great difficulty, 
and between long pauses. “ A 
brave woman — and good. Strange 
— you were stopping — with the 
Vallences. Never mention — Kil- 
coursie — if you met him. I don’t 
seem able — to say much — now you 
have come ... . a lot of things 
— good of you to come. I shall 
not forget .... I knew you 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


would. The children .” He 

closed his eyes, but said pres- 
ently : “ I have Jpeen waiting to 
see my Dearest — so long. She 
will think I have changed.” A 
faint smile moved his lips. “ I 
am rather sleepy. You don’t 
mind ? ” 

Sacheverell sat down by his side 
and waited. 

Mrs. Grimmage and Anna, in 
the meantime, were talking with 
some show of blithesomeness in 
the next room. 

“ If you want to know my idea 
of a Man,” said Mrs. Grimmage, 
“the Dean is my idea to the very 
life. The moment I clapped eyes 
on him, I said to myself, ‘ That is 
a Man ’ — and meant it. I suppose 
he’s married. He’s got a sort of 
patient, bearing-up look. Per- 
haps she’s a currick’s daughter, 


88 the sinner’s comedy. 


and a fright. Men are wonderful 
poor judges of looks. They will 
pick out girls J:hat you and I 
wouldn’t look at a second time, 
and go raving cracked after ’em. 
I know ’em. You can’t tell me 
anything about Men. But I like 
a man to be manly. Let him be 
decent, I say, but let him be a 
Man.” She looked wise over this 
dark utterance. 

“ A man’s way of loving is so 
different from a woman’s,” sighed 
Anna. 

“ There aint nothing,” said 
Mrs. Grimmage, “ there aint 
nothing that makes them so sulky 
and turns them against you so 
soon as saying anything like that. 
And that’s a mistake girls always 
make. They begin the heavenly. 
It’s not a bit of use being heavenly 
with men. Just you remember 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 89 


that. You must take ’em as they 
are, or leave ’em.” 

“ I see,” said Anna. 

“ There’s many a young woman 
lost a man’s love,” observed Mrs. 
Grimmage, “ by coming the 
heavenly.” 

“ She’s better without it,” said 
Anna, “ much better.” 

“ The most faithfulest man I 
ever see,” said Mrs. Grimmage, 
“ is your poor, dear uncle. But 
then he’s eccentrick — aint he ? 
And he aint the sort as many ’ud 
fancy for a sweetheart. He aint 
dash-ey enough. Women do like 
a bit of Dash. I do myself.” 

At that moment Sacheverell 
tapped at the door. The room 
adjoined Legge’s. 

“ It is over,” he said gently. 

Mrs. Grimmage uttered a cry. 


90 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“ Oh, sir, what do you mean ? 
Whatever do you mean ? ” 

Anna put her hand to her heart. 
She followed Sacheverell to the 
bed where Legge was at rest. 

“ How happy he looks,” she 
said. 

“ I never know’d he was so 
handsome,” sobbed Mrs. Grim- 
mage. 

He had the face his wife knew, 
and was young again. 

The settlement of poor Legge’s 
affairs proved a very small matter. 
Beyond his few books and pic- 
tures and a little plain furniture 
he had nothing in the world. He 
had always spent his money as he 
earned it : sometimes he could 
have spent rather more than he 
earned, and still lacked much 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 9 1 


which many men would have con- 
sidered necessary to existence. 
His two little girls, whom he kept 
at a happier and more cheerful 
home in the country than he 
could give them in his lodgings, 
had all his income save the two 
pounds a week he kept — unwill- 
ingly — for his own use. He never 
allowed himself to think how he 
longed for his children and the 
brightness they might have 
brought into his life. He only 
thought of what was best for 
them. They were left totally un- 
provided for : the sale of his 
effects produced, as Sacheverell 
told Anna, two hundred pounds. 
As he was the purchaser, he prob- 
ably knew. Lord Middlehurst, 
out of consideration for his ser- 
vices to The Argus , paid his 
funeral expenses and the doctor’s 


92 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


bill: he also gave him a short 
obituary, in which he referred 
very handsomely to his brilliant 
talent and excessive modesty, 
“ which alone kept him from that 
high place in the public regard 
which]' etc., etc., etc. 

“ I will take care of the chil- 
dren,” said Anna. 

“ You ?” said Sacheverell. She 
seemed so very young for the bur- 
den. But she smiled. 

“Iam getting on pretty well, 
you know,” she said. “ I am more 
fortunate in my publishers than 
my poor uncle. I — I draw a 
little.” 

Her white face — her slight form 
— it was all so childish and pathet- 
ic. “ The artistic profession is the 
hardest in the world for a woman 
— in fact, any artistic profession is 
hard for anybody,” he said. “ Art 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 93 


means labor — hard, ceaseless, un- 
satisfying labor. Her service 
is work, and her reward — the 
strength for more work.” 

“ I have drawn ever since I can 
remember,” said Anna; “ it came to 
me like speaking. When I was old 
enough I studied hard. I made up 
my mind that painting was to be 
my work in life. y Tis no sin, you 
know , to follow one s vocation. 
They called me a fool, and they 
said I would starve. I did starve 
for a time. I could wish I had 
starved a little longer. But I mar- 
ried. I forgot my work.” She 
colored. “ I soon remembered it 
again. I decided to study quietly 
by myself for a year or two — any 
number of years, for that matter 
— I did not care how many, so 
long as I could see Hope at the 
end. I was working when — when 


94 THE sinner’s comedy. 


I came to nurse my uncle. I 
think I must win — perhaps not yet, 
but some day. Every failure will 
only make me stronger when I suc- 
ceed. I am so hard to discourage! 
Pain and despair and heartache — 
they cast you down for a while, but 
afterward — they help you to un- 
derstand.” It did not seem at all 
strange then that she talked to 
him so openly, but it was very 
wonderful to remember in later 
days. 

Sacheverell listened with almost 
painful interest. Her story, with 
its suggestion of a tragedy in little, 
was sad enough : what he feared 
was her mistaken confidence in her 
own ability, which seemed to him 
even sadder. Genius is so rare, 
and ambition is so common. 

“ I should like to see some of 
your work,” he said, at last. 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 95 


“ If you can call at my studio 
to-morrow,” said Anna, laughing, 
“ I will show you my master- 
piece ! ” 

He did not go immediately, 
however, but stayed an hour 
longer. They sat in the window 
of Mrs. Grimmage’s drawing room, 
and talked very happily, if incon- 
sequently, on many subjects, from 
Browning and Bach to Mazzini 
and Plato. They were very cul- 
tured, indeed. 

“ Did you see that woman who 
passed just now?” said Anna sud- 
denly. 

“ Yes.” 

“ She had beautiful hair — Vene- 
tian red.” 

“ I saw it. ” 

She looked at him with some- 
thing like gratitude. The artistic 
sympathy is very subtle— terribly 


96 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


irresistible. 41 How lovely,” she 
said, “to be with somebody who 
does see things. I could tell you 
the whole history of that woman,” 
she went on, “ just from her walk. 
She does not care for that tramp 
— he doesn’t understand her — he 
doesn’t even know that her hair 
is magnificent. But she wants to 
belong to somebody.” 

“ When a man suspects that his 
God is not taking him seriously, 
he changes his religion,” said 
Sacheverell ; “ are women less phil- 
osophical ? ” 

“ Gods are so scarce,” sighed 
Anna ; “ if a woman finds even a 
false one — she thinks herself for- 
tunate.” 

For the next twenty minutes 
they played at disagreeing. Such 
flat disagreement was never heard 
within those peaceful walls. “ I 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 97 


shall have more to say on the sub- 
ject to-morrow,” said Sacheverell, 
when he left. 

“ I could say miles at this min- 
ute,” said Anna. 

After he had gone she drew 
him, from memory. The result 
was such a miserable failure in her 
eyes that she burnt it — with a 
refinement of cruelty — by inches. 
Nor did she ever attempt to draw 
him again. It may be that a 
suggestion, a hint of him, cropped 
out occasionally in the turn of a 
head, in an arm, or in a look round 
the brows, but that was all. She 
kept the Man to herself ; he could 
not be chopped into illustrations. 

Sacheverell had guessed from 
Legge’s remark that Anna was 
none other than the mysterious 
artist who looked like Vittoria 


98 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


Colonna. It was strange that 
he should have met her — very 
strange. Having met her, he was 
quite certain that the love had 
been all on Sir Richard’s side : 
that the story was all on Sir 
Richard’s side. That such a 
woman could care for such a 
man was impossible. It was 
easy to understand, however, 
why Mrs. Prentice might care 
for him. He had given very 
little thought to Emily since the 
evening she had played in the 
church. He remembered her as 
one remembers some certain night 
in June — that it was perfect for 
June — that a year of such would 
be unhealthy. He had mistaken 
la grande passion for passion. It 
consoled him to call to mind that 
Marcus Aurelius had also fallen 
into some fits of love, “ but was 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


99 


soon cured.” Emily’s face came 
upon him — it was less lovely than 
Anna’s. More bewitching, more 
human, less spiritual. He thought 
he had read her character very 
truly at first sight. She was Circe. 
Reconsidering his decision, how- 
ever, at a distance of four weeks 
and sixty miles, he saw that there 
were weak points in the Circe 
theory. Emily was the Popian — 
merely Popian — coquette ; per- 
haps too fond of admiration : 
decidedly weak. Pretty ? yes, if 
one admired the opal— set in bril- 
liants. Her hair always smelt of 
violets. (Scent got into one’s 
brains.) There was none of that 
mincing sensuality about Anna. 

When he saw her at her studio 
the next day, she was very quiet 
and grave. The only canvas in 
the room had its face to the wall. 


IOO THE sinner’s COMEDY. 


“ I am very nervous about 
showing it to you,” she said ; “no 
one else has seen it. I am so 
afraid you will think it is rubbish. 
If you do,” she added, “ I shall 
cut it up — and start afresh.” 

“ Even if I think,” he said, 
awkwardly, “ that you have hard- 
ly had experience enough yet — 
you see, you are very young ” 

He felt he could never flatter 
her — never pay her mere formal 
compliments. If her work were 
bad, he would have to say so. 

She went slowly toward the 
canvas. He was anxious himself, 
and could not understand the 
anxiety. It was a new sensation. 
He dreaded to see her failure; 
the suspense was intolerable. 

“ Is the light good?” he began. 

“ Excellent,” replied Anna. 
Neither of them knew what they 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


IOI 


were saying. “ There,” she said, 
placing the picture on the easel. 
“The subject is ‘The Flight of 
Pompilia.’ ” She quoted Brown- 
ing’s lines very softly — half-un- 
consciously : 

** Between midnight and morn 

Began a whiteness in the distance, waxed 
Whiter and whiter, near grew and more near, 
Till it was she: there did Pompilia come ; 
The white I saw shine through her was her 
soul’s, 

Certainly, for the body was one black. 

Black from head to foot.” 

“You were right to work,” he 
said, at last. 

“ Shall I go on — working?” 

“ By all means.” 

“That is all I want to know,” 
said Anna. 

“ There are many things I 
should like to say,” said Sach- 
everell. “You have great power. 


102 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


.... You know what I think — 
what I must think,” 

She blushed and smiled. 

“ I have worked very hard,” 
she said. “If you could see the 
yards of canvas I have burnt ! I 
have been painting and burning 
ever since I was six. ... So you 
like it ? Of course, it is not quite 
finished. I work very slowly. 
Lately I have accomplished so 
little — so very little. The illus- 
trations take all my time, and 
when they are done I am too tired 
to paint.” 

“ Then why don’t you give up 
the illustrating? ” 

She smiled at him sadly. “ I 
must keep body and soul together, 
and — I have someone dependent 
on me.” This was the first refer- 
ence she had ever made to her 
husband. Sacheverell felt at 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 103 

once, by a sort of intuition, that 
the someone else was the always- 
absent, always-present Christian. 
“ I made one great mistake in my 
life,” she said gravely. “ Some 
day I may tell you about it.” 
Then they talked of other things. 

“ I know — about your book,” 
said Anna, at last ; “ my uncle 
told me. Why won’t you finish 
it?” 

“ That is nothing in the world,” 
he said briefly. “ Why did Legge 
tell you ? ” 

“One day, when he was ill, I 
went to his desk — I was the only 
one he allowed to touch his 
papers — and I found a manuscript. 
I was unhappy at the time, but I 
read it, and somehow, my despair 
went away. I felt I might yet do 
something with my life. I asked 
who wrote it. Then he told me 


104 the sinner’s comedy. 


it was yours, that it belonged to 
your book, and how you put it 
aside when your sister — when 
you became a rector — some- 
where.” 

“You see,” he said, with an at- 
tempt at a laugh, “ I, too, have 
someone dependent on me, and 
I — like you — work slowly. Still, 
as a matter of fact, I write now, 
when I feel in the mood. I have 
a certain amount of leisure. Just 
now I am supposed to be resting. 
I have had rather a hard year, 
but next year may not bring so 
much care, and then ” 

“ But — you are not happy,” she 
said. 

“ Perhaps not. I don’t think 
that matters. I will finish my 
work some day. I shall finish it 
for you.” 

“ Promise me,” said Anna. 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 105 


“ I promise.” 

She held out her hand to say 
good-by. 

“ Not that hand,” he said, “ the 
other. You give your right hand 
to everyone.” 

The extraordinary thing was 
that this did not seem extraordi- 
nary to either of them. They 
had seen a great deal of each 
other — though the length of their 
friendship could be reckoned by 
days. 



VII. 



HAT night, Sacheverell 
received a letter from 
his sister. It ran : 

“ My Dear Peter : 


“ As it is so much more agreeable 
here than it is in town or at home 
just at present, Carlotta insists on 
my remaining another fortnight. 
I think this is a splendid oppor- 
tunity to have the dining room 
whitewashed and the drawing 
room papered. The paint in my 
bedroom, too, would be none the 
worse for a fresh coat. As you 
are in town, perhaps you had bet- 
ter go straight on to Tenchester 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 107 


and remain there to look after the 
workmen. They need incessant 
watching. Get somebody to in- 
spect the drains. I am so dread- 
fully afraid of typhoid — one hears 
such awful things — and now Frank 
is coming home I want to be quite 
sure that the house is healthy. I 
have been thinking that you might 
as well move into the back bed- 
room and let him have yours. 
There is such a nice wall there to 
hang his trophies on. We shall 
never get them all into the draw- 
ing room. Would you like the 
smaller lion’s skin for your study? 
It is so dark there that no one will 
be able to see that it is torn. 

“ Mrs. Prentice is flirting des- 
perately with Sir Richard. She 
will, no doubt, marry him. They 
are pretty certain to ask us to St. 
Simon’s-in-the-Close. She and I 
have seen a great deal of each 
other lately. All the Havilands 


I08 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


are useful peophe to know. Lord 
Middlehurst has a tremendous lot 
of influence. He might do some- 
thing for one of the boys. I want 
Lionel to get a secretaryship ; he 
has his father’s charm of manner. 
Darling Percy! But it does not 
do to think of him. By the bye, 
don’t forget to have all the lamps 
thoroughly overhauled. 

“ Can you make up a parcel of 
your old clothes (under-things, of 
course) and send them to me 
here? I have promised them to 
the under-gardener. He is so 
grateful to me, poor creature. I 
am sure the little change down 
here did you good. You don’t 
rest sufficiently. I cannot get you 
to be idle. Why you should take 
all this trouble about that extra- 
ordinary Cunningham Legge I 
cannot imagine. Such waste of 
time, too, for a man with your 
responsibilities. Your friends 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


(particularly the nobodies and 
those who have nothing on earth 
to do) seem to think that you 
have nothing to do but to fetch 
and carry for them. I wonder 
why you put up with it. I 
wouldn’t for one moment. 

“ I don’t wish to worry you, 
but I think you ought to stir 
yourself about ‘ The Metaphysic 
of Religion. ’ By the time you 
have finished it all your ideas 
will be old-fashioned. You don’t 
seem to have any ambition. I 
am sick of telling people you 
hope to publish it soon. I am 
sure they think it will end like 
that tiresome old Casaubon’s 
* Key to all the Mythologies. ’ 
Mr. Vallence hinted something 
of the sort at lunch to-day. Why 
do you trouble with all these 
committee meetings and things? 
Other Deans don’t do it. I was 
trying to remember yesterday how 


IIO THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


many people you buried last 
year. I really think you might 
drop the burying. It means a 
whole afternoon every time. 
When do those awful Divinity 
students begin work ? It seems 
to me you take far too great pains 
with them. They are not worth 
it. Still, as they pay very well, 
you can’t give them up just at 
present. 

“ If Lord Middlehurst puts 
Lionel up for the Junior Devon- 
shire , the entrance fee won’t be 
more than fifty. I forget the ex- 
act amount — but it will be such a 
good thing for him. In one way 
it is rather an awkward expense 
just now. I was rather hoping 
that you and I could manage a 
little run to Bellagio later on. I 
need a rest fully as much as you 
do. There’s the dinner gong. 

“ Your affectionate sister, 


“ E. Molle. 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


Ill 


“ P. S. — I want some money 
for a few bills. Better send a 
blank check. ” 

He read this through and 
laughed ; it reminded him of so 
many others in the same strain. 
At one time it would have filled 
him with bitterness, but now — 
could he not see Anna on the 
morrow ? He sat down to write ; 
he had a few ideas. This was the 
first: Thoughts , when the mind is 
thrall to some strong emotion , come 
in a sort of rhythm ; it may be said 
that we think in a rough kind of 
blank verse. He paused, then 
wrote rapidly on another slip of 
paper : 

She seemed a flower — heiress to all the beauty, 
All the grace and fragrance of each flower 
Sprung since the world began. 


He read it critically — frowned — 


1 12 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


smiled. It was, at least, spon- 
taneous ; he could grant that. 

He read it again — She seemed, i 
Ah ! why had the word seem oc- 
curred to him? There was an 
example of the mind uncon- 
sciously hedging. He wanted the 
Truth, not the Semblance. It 
might be that the Real Anna was i 
plain-featured and ordinary; a 
little, dumpish woman ; sallow, 
somewhat shrewish. Oh, that 
a man’s eyes should be such 
traitors to his Perception ! He 
remembered that he had suffered 
the same harassing doubts in the 
case of Mrs. Prentice. “Agnosco 
veter is vestigia flammce ,” he mur, 
mured, and passed a sleepless 
night. 

On the morrow, when he called 
at the Studio, he made no excuse 
for his visit. He went as a matter 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 1 1 3 




of course ; it seemed, indeed, the 
only thing to do. 

As for Anna — she expected 
him, and wore a useless, but ador- 
able silk pinafore. The color was 
pink : it pleased him to call it 
rose-jacinth. He decided, for all 
time, that she was lovely. And 
he was not mistaken. 





VIII. 

FTER Sacheverell had 
left the Vallences’, Em- 
ily’s whole manner 
changed. Her gayety 
was astonishing. To Carlotta’s 
dispassionate mind it seemed 
rather hysterical ; her laugh was 
so much merrier than her eyes; 
her wit had the saltness of tears. 
Carlotta could not think she was 
unhappy. Every circumstance 
forbade the suspicion. As for 
Emily herself, she tried to believe 
— and to a certain extent suc- 
ceeded in believing — that she was 
supremely contented. To be 



THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 115 


pretty, to be rich, to have a de- 
voted lover — could she ask for 
more? To Go as much as one 
could, and Think as little as one 
might, was the secret of happi- 
ness. 

“Thought should be uncon- 
scious, ” said Sir Richard; “it is a 
natural process, like digestion.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” sighed 
Emily. 

She was too impressionable, too 
quick with her sympathy, and too 
imaginative to be rigidly faithful 
to any one creed or any one crea- 
ture. She could weave fairy gar- 
ments for the ugliest scarecrow ; 
if Ferdinand were absent, she 
would find something to adore 
in the present Caliban. Was Sa- 
cheverell right, she wondered ; 
was Work and Suffering the good 
part ; or was Sir Richard — with 


II 6 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


his laws of Nature, and that 
Nature a smiling goddess — right? 

“At one time,” said Carlotta to 
her one day, “I thought you liked 
the Dean. He has not such 
charming manners as Sir Richard, 
but one can hardly compare 
them.” 

“ Hyperion to a Satyr," said 
Emily. 

“What!” And Carlotta’s eyes 
opened wide. 

“I — I did not mean Sir Richard 
by Hyperion." 

“Emily, I’m afraid you are 
fickle.” 

“Perhaps I am.” 

“But if you liked the Dean ” 

“I didn’t exactly like him. I 
might have, but — you see, I know 
quite well he despises me.” 

“How could he?” 

Emily remembered the last 


» 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 117 

look he gave her. “Well, I sup- 
pose he is more sorry for me than 
anything. It was so unpleasant, 
you know — he happened to come 
into the music room when that 
stupid Richard, was kissing my 
hand. I couldn’t explain that it 
really wasn’t my fault. I don’t 
suppose I shall ever see him again. 
I don’t care a bit — only — it isn’t 
nice to know that he has got quite 
a wrong impression of me.” 

“One of these days,” said Car- 
lotta, “your flirting will bring you 
unhappiness. Sir Richard is not 
a man who will stand nonsense.” 

“Don’t frighten me,” said Em- 
ily, who was trembling already. 
Carlotta’s words only confirmed 
her own fear. 

“Do you love him?” said Car- 
lotta. 

“I don’t know,” said Emily. 


Il8 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


“I suppose I do — in a way. I am 
afraid of him. He is so de- 
termined.” 

“I wish you had never met 
him !” said Carlotta, prime insti- 
gator of their meetings. 

‘‘So do I,” said Emily, with a 
sort of whimper. 

“Have you promised to marry 
him?” 

“He thinks I have. It comes 
to the same thing. Oh, dear !” 

My dear Emily, this is too 
ridiculous.” 

“It’s dreadful. But what can I 
do? I was never so worried in 
my life. We are going to Egypt. 
Egypt is newer than Paris. And 
a quiet wedding — just in my 
going-away dress. Do you think 
that a pale shade of gray, trimmed 
with sable tails ” 

“Why can’t you be honest and 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 119 


admit that you are in love with 
him?” 

‘‘Well, he is very nice. You 
should hear him read Herrick. 
He feels every word of it, and it 
is not as though he were a man 
who had been in love a hundred 
times. I am the only one. Just 
think — out of all the women he 
has met. We must be happy.” 

“You can’t command the Fu- 
ture,” said Carlotta stonily. 

“Let me think I can,” said Em- 
ily, “that’s half the battle,” and 
(she was spending a few days with 
Carlotta) she went out of the 
room singing. 

Nevertheless, when she found 
herself in her own bedroom, with 
the door locked, she cried. She 
herself could have given no cause 
for her tears ; that was the worst 
of it. It was an unsatisfactory 


120 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


misery in every sense — without 
beginning, or middle, or end, or 
reason, or hope. She paused 
once in her weeping to wonder 
what she could wear down to din- 
ner. There was the velvet with 
point de Flandres. Sacheverell 
hated velvet, but Sacheverell 
was not there to see. The sob- 
bing continued. To be loved was 
better than loving — much better. 
She would marry Sir Richard, who 

worshiped her, and forget 

There was no one to forget. 

At dinner that evening she was 
dazzling. Sir Richard was there. 

In the drawing room afterward, 
Mrs. Molle and Carlotta sat by 
the fireplace and discussed bron- 
chitis. Digby was confined to his 
room with neuralgia — and an ad- 
verse criticism. Sir Richard saw 
his chance. There was a window- 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


I 2 I 


seat some distance from the fire. 
Would Emily sit there and watch 
the stars? He knew a little about 
astronomy. 

“This is our last night here — for 
some time,” he said, in a low 
voice. “It is never so nic.e at 
Hurst Place.” 

“This is certainly very pleas- 
ant,” said Emily; “what is the 
name of that star?” 

“Do you remember what you 
promised?” 

“I have promised ever so many 
things, haven’t I? I hope I shall 
be able to keep some of them.” 

“You must keep one.” 

: “That wasn’t a promise — ex- 
actly. And I forget. What was 
it about?” 

“You do not forget.” 

“Do take care! They will see 
you. You are hurting my hand. 


122 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


I suppose I do remember. How 
you tease ! Besides — I was in 
fun." 

“I was not." 

"Well, what do you want me 
to do?" 

“I want you to marry me." 

"Marriage is so dull, Richard. 
There would be no more Herrick. 

. ... We are so happy as we are. 
Why spoil it? Men are never 
satisfied !" 

"Yes, they are. If it were not 
for that Molle person and Car- 
lotta- Shall we ever be alone 
together — ever able to talk except 
five yards apart, with our eyes on 
the door or some old woman? I 
am sick of it. This is the sort of 
thing that drives people into mat- 
rimony. Don’t laugh at me — it 
is. Emily, meet me in town on 
Monday. Let us be married 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 123 

quietly — by special license. We 
won’t tell anyone about it. You 
need only regard it as a form of 
engagement — if you like. I only 
want to know that you belong to 
me — that whatever happens, you 
are my wife. Is that much to 
ask — when I love you as I do?” 

“Wouldn’t it seem odd? What 
would people say?” The idea, 
however, appealed to her. 
Though it spelt a marriage certifi- 
cate, it sounded like throwing her 
cap over the wind-mill. Irre- 
sistible witchcraft ! Her eyes 
sparkled. 

“What fun!” she said. 

Everything, he saw, depended 
on his self-restraint. A move- 
ment, an expression, a word too 
much or too little, and his case 
would be ruined. That she was 
a nice problem in diplomatics was 


: ' -■ ! 

, 

124 THE SINNERS COMEDY. 

• 

not the least considerable of her 
fascinations; he could never be 
sure of her. She was not a worn- 
an one could woo dozing. He 
looked round. Mrs. Molle and 
Carlotta had gone into the little 
boudoir which led off from the | 
drawing room. He could hear ; 
their voices; they were searching 
for a mislaid letter. Swiftly and 
boldly he caught Emily in his 
arms and — did not kiss her. He 
just put his lips to her ear and 
said, “You are so beautiful!” 
Badly managed, the thing would 
have been a hug. Unspeakable < 
vulgarity ! As he did it, however, 
it was a movement of much grace, 
indicative of passion. 

Emily said nothing. 

“Dearest, you will come on 
Monday ?” 

She lifted up her face to say 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 1 25 


“No.” It somehow got mixed on 
the way with a “Yes” from Sir 
Richard. The combination was 
no syllable. 

They were married, however, 
by a Bishop, assisted by an Arch- 
deacon. Everyone agreed that it 
was even grander than her first 
wedding. 




IX. 

OR Sacheverell the sun 
had not set for a fort- 
night ; for Anna, there 
had been magic in the 
moon. They had seen each other 
every day ; they had been for sev- 
eral strolls into the country. She 
always walked with him to his 
hotel or till they were in sight of 
it, and he invariably walked back 
with her again to her studio. 
The childishness of the perform- 
ance caused them endless merri- 
ment. They also read together ; 
once or twice they managed to 
finish a whole paragraph. For 



THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 1 27 


some reason, however, she never 
touched her picture. “ I can al- 
ways paint,” she said ; “ I have 
been painting all my life. I have 
not always had you — nor can I 
have you always.” He had told 
her that he loved her; she had 
made answer that men were very 
fickle ; that Love was the Eternal 
Lie, and the man who told it the 
prettiest was the best poet. ( She,, 


herself, was not, as the phrase 
goes, in love with him, but she 
was under his influenced Sachev- 
erell’s dreamy, speculative mind 
was especially delightful to her, 
a woman who had never found 
leisure for dreaming, and to whom 
the high sphere of speculative 
thought was an undiscovered 
country. There was a gentle- 
ness, too, in his character, a resig- 
nation to the will of God — or of 
anybody — which seemed divinely 




128 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


meek to her more rebellious na- 
ture. When she told him the 
long story of her short life, of her 
husband, of Kilcoursie, she forgot 
all her past unhappiness in the 
fact that he, in the Present, was 
listening and understanding. 
“ Talking to you,” she said to him, 
“ is only thinking to myself — made 
easier.” 

That evening he was to meet 
Mrs. Molle at Paddington, whence 
they would leave for Tenchester. 
He could not see Anna for at 
least ten days. 

“ It will be strange to-morrow,” 
she said, “not to have you with 
me.” 

“ And I ” said Sacheverell. 

“ Will you miss me ? ” 

“You know I will.” 

“ I am so glad. I ought not, 
it’s hateful — but I want you — 
to be miserable.” She opened a 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 129 


cardboard box which stood in a 
corner of the room, and produced 
an unconsidered trifle in the shape 
of some ribbons and feathers. 
She put it on her head, and in so 
doing managed to brush some 
tears from her eyelashes. 

“ Do you like my new hat ? ” 
she said. This was her way of 
changing the subject. 

“ Is that bow meant to stick 
up?” 

“ Of course ; flat bows are hid- 
eous. Nothing would induce me 
to alter it. Nothing . Perhaps 
you will like it better when you 
get used to it.” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ Why don’t you like it now?” 

“ I do,” he said. 

She smiled with happiness. “ I 
love nice clothes. I could live in 
a garret and sleep on the floor and 
eat bread and apples, or bread 


130 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


without the apples — but I must 
have pretty gowns.” 

“ You are very beautiful in any- 
thing,” he said. 

“ If you think so,” she answered, 
as gravely, “ it will make me beau- 
tiful.” 

“ Anna,” he said quickly, “ if 
we could be together always ! ” 

“Together — always!” she re- 
peated. 

“Just think of it — you with 
your painting and me — who 
knows ? I might finish my book. 
We might go to Mount Athos.” 

“On Mount Athos,” said Anna, 
“there would be no philosophy — 
but a fiddle and some picturesque 
rags.” 

“ I am afraid we must not drop 
philosophy,” he said. 

“ In that case,” said Anna, “ we 
must drop Mount Athos and take 
an attic. It would have to be an 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 131 


attic — we should be so poor. But 
we would work and work, and 
work. Between us we might ac- 
complish something ! Would the 
days ever be long enough ? I 
would do the cooking. I can make 
an omelette and a beefsteak pie — 
but I have forgotten most of the 
pie. Do you mind ? ” 

He laughed. 

“Should we be able to afford 
beefsteak ? ” 

“We should be called The Dean 
and his minx,” said Anna. “ What 
would Eleanor say? ” 

“ Suppose we went down and 
resigned the Deanery together,” 
he sugggested. “ But are you — 
crying ? ” 

“ No, it is only the light — it is a 
little strong for my eyes. I — I 
have been using them too much 
lately. Ten whole days to wait — 
before I can see you again. It 


132 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


seems such a long time; So many 
things can happen in ten days. 
I will work at the picture, but — 
sometimes I think it will never be 
finished. Whenever I see hope, 
something happens. I — I heard 
to-day,” she went on, “ from my 
husband. He is in money diffi- 
culties again. The thirty pounds 
I sent him to pay some bills with 
he has used for something else. 
So he wants another thirty. That 
means I must accept Stock’s offer 
for the black and whites. I am 
getting so tired — and worried. I 
am strong really — very strong. I 
ought to be able to work nine 
hours a day — but 1 can’t.” 

“ And I can do nothing to help 
you?” said Sacheverell. “Must 
I see you toiling like this for that 
man ? Am I powerless ? a log ? 
a stone ? ” 


THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 133 

* - 

“ I shall be all right,” she said, 
“ if you write to me every day. 
You have given me so much cour- 
age that nothing seems too hard 
for me.” 

Their farewell was in silence. 

Her letters for the next week 
were full of humor — of hope — of 
plans for the future. “ Seventy- 
two more hours, and then I shall 
see you. I am so glad that I feel 
almost afraid to think of it.” So 
she wrote in the morning. That 
same night she sent another note 
to say she had received word that 
her husband was lying seriously 
ill — at the point of death — alone 
in his lodgings. “ I must go to 
him,” she wound up. “ I will do 
what I can. He has no friend in 
the world. The very sight of him 
stifles me. I would sooner house 


/ 


134 THE sinner’s comedy. 


with a rattlesnake than go near 
him. But he is ill. I have no 
choice in the matter.” 

Sacheverell, who knew the hor- 
rors of her married life as no one 
else knew them, read her letter 
and felt it was her death warrant. 
He was staring at it when Eleanor 
rushed into the study waving the 
Pall Mall Gazette . 

“ The Bishop of Gaunt is dead,” 
she panted, and looked the rest. 
He neither heard nor saw her. 

“ George is not so ill as I ex- 
pected,” Anna next wrote; “ he is 
certainly weak, but there is noth- 
ing really serious the matter with 
him. I cannot help thinking — 
well, perhaps you can guess. 
Still, as I am here, I will not 
leave him till he is convalescent. 
I am not feeling very well. My 
eyes pain me. I am obliged to 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 135 


work at night when he is asleep. 
Of course, it is a strain. I hope 
to be out of the house on Satur- 
day.” The note was dated Thurs- 
day. On Sunday morning Sa- 
cheverell received the following : 

“ 14 Carbury Street, 

“ Tottenham Court Road. 

“Dear Sir : 

“ My wife desires me to say that 
she has been unable to finish the 
drawings she promised you. She 
is not well enough to write her- 
self, but she hopes to be able to 
do so in a few days. 

“ Yours very truly, 

“George Christian.” 

During the four months that 
followed — months of such dull 
madness that it seemed sanity — 
Sacheverell managed to hear both 
directly and indirectly how she 
was. Not that inquiries were 


136 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


necessary — he knew by a strange i 
instinct her good days and her 
bad days. He also knew that she 
would never recover. 

“At onetime you thought you 
would like to be a Bishop/’ said 
Eleanor ; “ now you have got 

your wish, and you don’t seem 
to care a bit.” 

“ I believe I am called a Bishop,” 
he answered, with a strange smile. 

“ Poor Doddridge! ” 

Doddridge was his predecessor. 



* 






X. 

NNA wrote to him at last 
to come and see her. 

The day was dim : 
rain seemed to be falling, 
though it left no trace on the 
damp road and pavements. Car- 
bury Street — at best a cheerless 
row of unhomelike dwellings — 
had to Sacheverell’s overwrought 
mind a terribly ominous gloom. 
In Number 14, one light was 
burning on the second floor; he 
guessed it was Anna’s sitting 
room. He walked up the steps 
slowly — with no gladness, no hope, 
only a weight at his heart. A dull 



138 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


little maid-servant ushered him up 
the stairs ; he gave his name in a 
voice he did not recognize ; the 
servant girl disappeared behind a 
portiere , came out again, and left 
him. As the door closed, the 
portttre moved and Anna stood 
before him. 

“Well?” she said, smiling, 
“ well ? ” 

Sacheverell put out his hand 
and just touched her. She was 
not a Spirit. She wore the dress 
he had last seen her in — one he 
knew well — a black garment of 
very ordinary make ; threadbare, 
but exquisitely neat. Her eyes 
were large and shone with unearth- 
ly brightness ; her face had a white 
radiance which was neither death- 
like nor human* The beauty of 
her countenance made him dumb ; 
he felt she had seen a glory he 
knew not of — nor guessed. She 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 139 


led him into an inner room — a 
tiny room lit by a flaring oil-lamp, 
badly trimmed and smelling of 
paraffin. Again they faced each 
other. 

“ I cannot see you very well,” 
said Anna, at last, “ but you are 
the same — a little thinner — but 
the same. Is it the light on your 
hair or — is it gray ? How I wish 
I could see you better. I have 
lived for this.” 

“ Am I granite ? ” wondered 
Sacheverell, “am I human?” 
But he said nothing. 

“ Tell me about you,” said Anna; 
“ tell me about your Palace. 
Have you a nice, big study — with 
a large window and long shelves 
for your books ? Does it open on 
to the garden ? ” 

“ Oh, my dearest,” said Sachev- 
erell, “ have you been well taken 
care of ? Have you everything 


140 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


you wish? I want to know — and 

I don’t seem able ” 

She laughed, and took his 
hand. “ I thought it was all 
ended twice. George was very 
frightened — he soon loses his nerve 
— but, you see, I am here.” She 
bent over him, and he thought 
she kissed his forehead. “ When 
can we have one of our old walks 
together? I cannot go far yet. 

Not more than two miles ” 

“Two miles! My dearest ” 

“Don’t you believe me? I 
can — I am sure I could — with 
you.” 

“ No,” he stammered, “no — not 
yet. The weather — the weather 
is not bright enough. You must 
rest a little longer. Perhaps in 
March.” 

Her eyes looked far away : she 
seemed a little disappointed. “ In 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 14I 


March,” she repeated ; “ but it is 
only February, now. In March ! ” 

“Anna,” he said, “I have 
known — I have always known — 
when you were suffering. Where 
is Christian? Does he take care 
of you ? ” 

“ He thinks he is very kind,” 
she said ; “ he means to be, at any 
rate.” 

“ I will forgive him everything,” 
said Sacheverell, “if he takes care 
of you.” 

“Don’t you see, ’’she said, “don’t 
you understand — that his care is 
what is killing me ? That it has 
killed me ? I feel as though I 
were in prison. I cannot tell him 
so. I cannot tell the doctors so. 
Besides, I am too weak to be 
moved. Mine was the mistake. 
I should not have returned to 
him. But I could not let 


142 THE. SINNER’S COMEDY. 


him die. The very sight of 
him/’ she said again, “ kills 
me.” 

“ I know — I know, I knew” he 
said. 

“ Don’t let us talk of it. In 
March — perhaps something will 
happen in March. You said 
March, didn’t you ? I am sup- 
posed to be suffering from a sort 
of overwork. I shall never finish 
‘ Pompilia ’ now. But tell me 
about you.” 

“ How are your money mat- 
ters ? ” he said abruptly. The 
question was wrung from him. 
He looked round the shabby, cold 
room, and hated himself and his 
palace. 

“ In a few weeks I shall be in 
the poorhouse,” said Anna, laugh- 
ing. “A new experience ! It will 
all be useful to my work. Local 
color ! ” 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 143 


“ Anna,” he said, desperately, 

“ you must let me ” 

“ I am only in fun, of course,” 
she said. “ If I wanted anything, 
I would tell you. You know I 
would. But I shall soon be well 
again, and away from here. If 

only my eyes Let me look 

at you once more.” She sighed 
at last and turned away. He saw 
a tear roll down her cheek. “ Do 
you think,” she said, “ we shall 
ever see the Studio — again ? ” 

He made no answer, but, fol- 
lowing a blind instinct, caught her 
hand. He knew afterward that it 
was a pitiful effort to hold her 
from Death. 

“I suppose you must go now,” 
she said. He felt that this was 
her way of telling him that her 
strength was failing. He rose, 
and kissed her good-by. ”1 
have lived, dearest,” said Anna. 


144 THE sinner’s comedy. 


A little later he found himself 
in the street. All feeling had left 
him ; he had no mind — not even 
enough to wonder whether his 
soul were dead. He walked into 
the* gathering darkness — on and 
on. Then by degrees he remem- 
bered that the meeting he had 
longed, without hoping, for — had 
taken place. He had gained his 
heart’s desire; he had seen Anna 
once more — spoken to her — 
touched her — heard her voice. 
Swifter than words the thought 
rushed over him that he must see 
her again and explain ; he had 
been cold, distant, speechless, im- 
possible. 

He drove back to Carbury 
Street. 

The landlady opened the door 
this time. She told him that 
Mrs. Christian was resting on the 
sofa; she had not felt quite 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 145 


strong enough yet to go upstairs 
to her room. She was wonderful 
easy tired. But she would, no 
doubt, see him. 

“I was obliged to come back, 
Anna,” he said, when he saw her. 
“I think my heart is broken ; but, 
you know — I love you. Words 
are nothing.” 

Anna laughed. ”1 understand, 
of course,” she said. “How could 
I misunderstand you? My dear- 
est and best — my very dear- 
est.” 

He drew a long sigh. “If you 
understand,” he said, “that is 
enough. But I wanted to make 
sure.” He knelt down by her 
side, and kissed her hands. 

“It is not everyone,” she said, 
“who can say — as I can say — I 
have found perfect happiness and 
perfect love. I think of that, and 
forget everything else. Good- 


146 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


by. You will come again — 
soon?” 

“Soon,” he said. 

In the hall he met a man, 
drunken, not ill-featured, but of 
evil expression. He reeled past 
Sacheverell with a dull stare, and 
groped his way up the staircase, 
bawling : 

“ It is not mine to sing the stately grace, 

The sweet soul shining in my lady’s face. 
Not mine in glo- glorious melodies ” 

It was George Christian. And it 
was for him to close her eyes in 
death. 



XI. 





|W0 days later, Sachev- 
erell received a letter 
from Mrs. Grimmage. 

“SIR: 

“Mrs. Christian died suddenly 
this morning. She sent for me, 
poor dear lady. I am too upset 
to write more. My lord, your 
obedient, 

“E. Grimmage.” 


“Have you got bad news, 
Peter?” said Mrs. Molle. They 
were sitting at the luncheon table. 
He had already told her of Anna’s 
illness, and she had guessed the 
rest — or enough. As the woman 


148 THE SINNER'S COMEDY. 


was dying (by a Special Provi- 
dence), she viewed the situation 
with complacency. “Is it bad 
news?” she repeated. 

“I expected it,” he said briefly, 
and left the room. 

The blow had fallen ; he could 
weep — a little. The heart-break- 
ing anxiety, the terrible despair 
of the past four months vanished 
like evil spirits ; he felt and be- 
lieved that she was with him ; 
that they were together as they 
had never been even when life 
seemed fairest. And, as he 
looked into the Past, he saw how 
they both — by silent agreement — 
had left the End unimagined. 
With them each day had been 
but a Beginning. 

And now it was Finished. 

When Sacheverell entered the 
chamber of death he saw Anna 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 149 


lying on the bed, her hands folded 
on her breast, her eyes closed as 
though she were resting them. 
Such beauty and such peace were 
beyond all words or tears. He 
knelt down by the bedside 

He was next conscious of an- 
other presence in the room. He 
looked up, and saw Sir Richard 
Kilcoursie. 

Kilcoursie was the first to 
speak. “I have just returned,” 
he said, catching his breath, “from 

my honeymoon Someone 

called Grimmage sent me word. 
.... I loved her,” he added 
fiercely. “I loved her. I never 
knew how much. Do you think 
she knows? She looks so still. 
She was always out of my reach, 
and now— forever, .... I was 
never good enough. There was 
no one like her. No one.” 

Sacheverell bowed his head. 


150 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


They heard the sound of sob- 
bing behind them. It was Mrs. 
Grimmage. 

'‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?” 
she said, wiping her eyes. “I 
have never seen nothing to equal 

it We did all we could. 

We might have saved her if she’d 
have given in sooner. But she 
never would give in. She kept 
on saying, ‘I shall soon be all 
right again.’ and she wouldn’t 
have the doctor in till this last 
week or two. She worked herself 
to death — and starved, if the 
truth was known. It’s my firm 
belief that she only had a dinner 
when I reg’lar sat down and made 
her. I don’t believe in them 
lunches she used to say she had at 
the Studio And that hus- 

band of hers was always nagging 
for money, and she gave it till 
there was next to nothing left but 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 151 


bare rent. I have been putting 
two and two together, and that’s 
my conclusion. It’s cruel hard, 
it is. She might ha’ eat me out 
of house and home, poor dear, for 
less than the asking. It’s a life 
thrown away, that’s what it is. 
Clean thrown away. And that 
husband of hers, with his three 
changes of air a year and a hot 
lunch every day of his life — he 
flourishes, he does. He’s upstairs 
now — taking on. You never 
see’d such antics. Reg’lar high- 
strikes. He’s fit to bust hisself 
crying. But he’s got just enough 
sense to stop before the bust 
comes. Let him howl ! That’s 
what I say. Let him howl ! . . . . 
There aint no use trying to un- 
derstand Providence. To take 
her and leave him ! ” 

“I could not wish her back,” 
said Sacheverell. He bent over 


152 THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 


and kissed Anna’s brow — marble- 
cold and more radiant than the 
lilies on her breast — and then 
passed out of the room. Her 
spirit followed him ; he left Kil- 
coursie gazing at her dead body. 

When he reached home it was 
late in the evening. But he sat 
down to work at his sermon for 
the following Sunday. And he 
worked well ; writing had not been 
so easy to him for months — 
for months it had been a painful 
labor. 

Eleanor watched him curiously. 

His calmness seemed to her a 
little unfeeling. She had always 
given him credit for a certain 
amount of heart. She could 
only compare his position to her 
own when the Major died, and 
she had been distracted. Her 
prostrate condition had been the 
talk of every tea party in Balling- 


THE SINNER’S COMEDY. 1 53 


collig for weeks. If Peter had 
been in love with that extraor- 
dinary artist-woman, he certainly 
had a very singular way of show- 
ing it. 

“Will you preach to-morrow, as 
usual?” she ventured to say. 

“Of course,” he said, without 
looking up from his paper. 
“Shall I not live as she would 
have me live — working?” 

But the Future, as he saw it, 
was dim 

Some years afterward the 
Bishop of Gaunt confided his 
brief love story to a friend. 

“But why,” said the friend, 
“since the husband had forfeited 
every right to be considered, why 
didn’t you punch his head and 
bear the woman off in triumph?” 

“To tell the truth,” said 
Sacheverell, “I was tempted to 


154 the sinner’s comedy. 



some such decisive measure-(- 
sorely tempted.” 

“If you had succumbed,” said 
the friend dryly, “she would have 
recovered.” 

“Don’t say so,” said Sacheverell, 
putting out his hand; “ I think I 
knoiv it” 

The friend, who was a psychol- 
ogist, went home with more ma- 
terial for his great work on Impulse 
and Reason. 

If the gods have no sense of 
humor they must weep a great 


deal. 








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